Love Thy Self
by JaimeJabs
Summary: When life turns darker and darker, Harry Potter does not lay down his arms, he does not go gentle into the night. He is a survivor, and he fights. And with the people he loves by his side, who knows what the outcome will be. (Reworked from old title: Repressed & Freed)
1. Ch 1 - Who Keeps Me Going

_All Dumbledore told us last year was that Cedric Diggory got killed by You-Know-Who and that you brought Diggory's body back to Hogwarts. He didn't give us details; he didn't tell us exactly how Diggory was murdered. I think we'd all like to know-"_

 _Zachariah Smith,_ **Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Page 436**

 _"- what happened in the Third Task? I, for one, don't believe…"_

Harry drowned out the irritating boy's insulting and accusing voice and observed the faces of other 'few' students Hermione gathered together for what his gut rightfully felt was a waste of time. The hunger obvious their eyes left no doubt in his mind that nearly all were there to listen to him recount the second worst day of his short life. Only a handful of them, if that many, were interested in what he had to teach.

"How do we know it wasn't you who…"

Harry chuckled and took a long sip of butterbeer, not finding it in himself to care about the silence that descended upon his reaction. He drank, and drank, until, from the weight of the bottle, he knew it was empty. _No sense in wasting good beverage._ He took his time to inspect it, reading the label and finding no ground-breaking information on it, and no solace.

Harry Potter was not and had never been a violent person. Yes, lately, he was on a short fuse and louder in his anger. He was faster to give up on the pretence of civility but never in his life, he threw the first punch.

 _Or the first beer bottle,_ he thought as the beer bottle drew an arch in the air and smacked the blonde Hufflepuff in the face. Harry was looming over the boy before the stool he was on a moment earlier hit the ground, the sound of its fall not distinguishable from the fall of the other boy. He saw and heard the students around him jump to their feet, but none of them did so to help their fallen friend. No, all they did was jump away from Harry in fright.

Harry bent down and fisted the fallen boy's bloody shirt and in a show of strength that surprised even himself, lifted him up. He pushed back the momentary guilt he felt at the unnatural angle the boy's nose took and the blood dripping from it and scoffed at the boy, contempt dripping from him. "So, you think you have a right to hear what happened that night? Whether I killed Cedric Diggory?"

Smith didn't move, and the small whimper of pain was the only sound he made.

With a smile that belied the anger coursing through him and that solidified his unhinged status to those around him, he shook the boy, earning a soft cry. "Riddle me this then: if you think me capable of murdering Cedric — supposedly best Hogwarts had to offer according to that damnable goblet — in cold blood and then lie my way out like a sociopath the ministry is accusing me of being, how can you be so brave as to antagonise me?"

Harry shook his head, his eyes wide in faux wonder. "Aren't you even a little afraid I might kill you in your sleep? I remember you being mighty afraid to even walk on the same corridor as me when you announced me the Heir of Slytherin." He waited a moment before shaking the boy again and let the smile drop from his face, a sneer taking its place. "Answer me!"

Again, no answer came. Harry spent another moment taking in the absolute terror colouring Smith's face before dropping him like a sack of potatoes. "Fine, I'll tell you what happened," he snarled before shaking his head in contempt. He walked back to his stool, refusing to look at Hermione and Ron's eyes. He took a shaky breath that was far too audible in the tense silence and sat down. Somehow, the glare he aimed indiscriminately on the crowd of students had them returning to their seats, the only sound that of stools scraping the floorboards.

"How about another beer before we have ourselves a story?" Harry called out to the glaring bartender, ignoring how odd it was to see such expression in such a familiar face. He turned his gaze back on the students sitting frozen still in front of him and allowed for the tense silence to stretch as he waited for his beer.

He counted thirty-five faces. It hurt that less than a dozen of them held anything other than fear, but he pushed the hurt back. He was good at that, you see. He learnt early on in his second year in Wizarding World to ignore his peers' scorn for and fear of him that tend to turn around faster than a drop of a hat.

Harry learned this year that anger helped to push the hurt away, and man, was he angry. Angry at Voldemort and his merry band of psychopaths. Angry at the Ministry and the public that were always so quick to accuse him of things, good or bad. Angry at Dumbledore and all the teachers that had no support in them to offer. Angry at his friends for dragging him to the wretched pub.

Angry at himself for caring.

He ignored the bartender's loud glare and took the butterbeer. He took a large gulp to wash the dirty taste the situation left in his mouth and sighed. "Alright, you want a story," he began. "I'll tell you a story but listen close and listen well because I will tell you what happened only once."

"The task started out fine: I faced some creatures but nothing taxing. A blast-ended skrewt, a boggart in the shape of a dementor. There were few traps but again, nothing truly bad. I was pleased, you know. Even if I was in that damned tournament against my wishes, I was doing well and had a real chance at victory. For a moment there, I thought things would be alright." He let out a dark chuckle that had a girl at the front of the audience jump.

He rolled his eyes at the dramatic reaction and continued, his voice tired and soft. "As is often the case with me, fate said, 'screw that,' and threw a wrench in things. You have no idea how fast a smile can disappear when you hear a girl, Fleur Delacour in this case, scream like she was being tortured. By the time I got there, she was reduced to twitching on the ground like a dying animal, whimpering. She couldn't move. She couldn't talk."

"Before the task began, our wise and talented teachers told us to send out red sparks in the air if something bad happens and I deemed Fleur's state 'fucked up' on the scale of bad," he said with a twitch of the corner of his mouth.

"I continued on. No sense in waiting around for nothing, I told myself, perhaps foolishly. Some time and a few simple creatures later, I heard Cedric's yells. He was asking Victor what he was doing. That's when Victor used the torture curse once again, on Cedric this time. I stunned Victor. Compared to Fleur, Cedric was right as rain, still able to walk and talk and what not. We sent up red sparks, for Victor this time, and went on our separate ways."

"We ran into each other again near where the Triwizard Cup was sitting in its golden glory. I ran but Cedric was closer. There was just one glitch. An acromantula. I warned Cedric in time and we dispatched the spider together with relative ease. Just a bite or two."

"Cedric was ten feet away from the cup, if that, but he refused to take it. We decided to grab it at the same time. 'A Hogwarts victory', we said." Harry let out a wet chuckle, causing a few people to start at the unexpectedly gentle sound. "Cup was a portkey. It transported us to a creepy-ass graveyard. Voldemort and Peter Pettigrew were waiting for us there. Well, they were waiting for me. Cedric was unlucky enough to accompany me. 'Kill the spare.' That's what Voldemort said, and Pettigrew did just that."

His eyes were unseeing at that point, reliving the horrors, getting angrier and angrier. So, he ignored those tiny warning signs before a bout of accidental magic, like his boiling, cold beer. "I was in shock at this point. I was tired, I was bitten by an acromantula, injured, burned, I had a fracture on my feet; and just when I thought it was over, I watched Cedric die. So, I didn't even respond when Pettigrew stunned me."

He heard sniffling, the first sound to make it past his distracted mind and looked up to see Cho Chang holding on to another girl like she was her lifeline. He grimaced but soldiered on. "When I woke up, I was tied to a gravestone. Pettigrew used an obscure ritual to create Voldemort a body. Used my blood to do it too. 'Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken. You will resurrect your foe.'"

Harry let out a sigh. "What followed was unoriginal. Voldemort called his servants and gave a classic villain monologue, torturing me in between just for shits and giggles. Believe me when I say the arsehole's 'Cruciatus' packs a punch. Basilisk venom has nothing on it. It was, by far, the most painful experience of my existence and believe me, pain and I go way back."

"Voldemort insisted we duel, because apparently, why not. He wanted to prove himself capable of defeating me, of killing me with a wand in my hand. Lucky for me; he failed. In a burst of brilliance, I summoned the cup, hugged the corpse of a friend and returned to Hogwarts. And, well, you know the rest."

He let the group and a few patrons of the dingy little establishment ponder the story with an impotent shrug. His anger was long gone, in its place a tired boy that badly needed to sleep.

No one spoke and the silence stretch to the point of awkwardness before Harry spoke again. He looked at the contemplating faces around him, fear still evident in the visages. "It's funny, you know. In my third year, during the Black scare, whenever dementors came near me, I would hear my mother beg Voldemort to spare me before dying. This summer, when dementors attacked me in the middle of _fucking_ Muggle world, I only heard Voldemort. 'Kill the spare.' So, I thank all of you for pushing me to relive those delightful, dementor-worthy moments. So, and I say this from the bottom of my heart, screw you. And screw Umbridge and screw Fudge, and screw all those mindless idiots who would think it is alright for a government to demonise a fifteen-year-old boy.

"Apparently, you came here to learn how to defend yourselves. Do you want to know my answer?" He waited for the answer he knew wouldn't come, his beer bottle cracking under the pressure of his leaking magic. "No thanks, fuck you, and have a nice day." His voice was soft and angry. So was his magic, and while Harry had control over his voice, the same couldn't be said about his magic. Nor was he surprised when the table on the corner creaked and imploded under pressure. The door to the pub followed suit and his peers took the message, filling out in a hurry. "You asked," Harry reminded to their backs.

Only a couple minutes later, the pub was blissfully empty, adding to Aberforth Dumbledore's ire, who stilled had not said anything but glared everything. _One is a respected Chief Warlock and a whacky Headmaster, the other is a sour-faced, angry pub owner,_ _Harry thought_ _, yet I like this one better._ _Thankfully, it only took a few galleons to win back the younger Dumbledore though he was no kinder nor less grouchy for it._

"Just a couple people, she says," Harry chuckled, now alone with Hermione on the way back to the castle.

Hermione huffed, her cheeks reddening slightly, and said, "Okay, I may have understated how many wanted to learn from you."

"Overstated, you mean," Harry said. "I only saw a handful of people that was actually interested in what I can teach them."

Hermione sighed and nodded. "I guess." She stayed silent for a few moments as they trekked the muddy road that connected Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. "You shouldn't have attacked Smith like that," she admonished, her voice gentle, almost afraid.

Harry hated himself for it.

He shrugged, not uncaringly but unsurely. "Probably not," he agreed. "But what should I have done? He did everything but outright claim I am a murderer."

"You could have explained yourself," she pointed out. "The violence and sarcasm didn't help your case."

"My case?" Harry stopped his friend with a hand on her upper arm, his voice low and tense. "Was I in a trial? Did I ask and beg people to _let_ me teach them?"

Hermione shook her head vehemently. "No, of course not! But don't you understand? They don't know — well, didn't know — what happened at the graveyard. From an outsider's view, everything must be terribly confusing. They lost a friend and no one's telling them anything."

"So what? I have to bend over backwards and beg them to believe me?" Harry asked, his volume increasing in tandem with his anger.

"No, no! But you must remember what Headmaster Dumbledore said. We must choose between what is easy and what is right. And it is our duty to help convince as many people as we can of V- Voldemort's return. And we must prepare for what's coming," Hermione explained, waving her hand animatedly. "I know it's unfair, but you are our best chance at learning how to defend ourselves."

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath, counting to seventeen before opening them again with no less heat to his glare. Hermione stood her ground and showed no sign of her nerves other than an involuntary wince. "Do you want to know what's unfair, Hermione? It's unfair that a fifteen-year-old boy has a murdering psychopath after him. It's unfair that this fifteen-years-old boy is being prosecuted in the public's eye with no thought given to what it does to his psyche. I am tortured by the teachers, insulted by the papers. I am suffering from PTSD. I can't sleep. I can barely eat. I'm dealing with all that with only two friends — two children, and a wanted man standing by me, supporting me."

This time, Hermione stepped back as if slapped, her eyes wide in shock and not a little bit of fear, but not of him. "Don't be ridiculous, Harry! You have many people supporting you."

"Who are these many people, Hermione? Minerva 'Keep your head down and go to your detentions' McGonagall? Albus 'can't even look me in the eye' Dumbledore. Remus 'can't be bothered to check up on the only son of his dead, close friends' Lupin?"

He shook his head and laughed with no mirth. "No. I have three people standing by me: you, who heals me when I'm tortured; Ron, who makes me smile somehow; and Sirius, who risks his life every time he contacts me. The rest are content just sitting back and doing nothing. Fucking Dumbledore!"

Hermione, eyes no less wide, couldn't help whispering, "Language, Harry." Neither said anything for a moment, standing awkwardly, wondering if they should laugh or cry. "I'm sure Headmaster is doing his best," Hermione said a moment later. "There must be so much on his plate. The Prophet is vilifying him too, you know."

"Right, and whose fault is that?" Harry asked with a shake of his head. "You realise that until this summer, Dumbledore held three of the most powerful and prestigious positions on the magical side of the world, right? Chief Warlock Dumbledore. He had so much authority, you must wonder why he didn't stop Fudge from sending Hagrid to Azkaban. Why, when _we_ , three school children, proved Hagrid's innocence, Dumbledore didn't use his position to bring Fudge on charges for sending an innocent man to hell without trial."

"No, Dumbledore was, and I bet still is, content with letting Fudge hold the most powerful position in the country even though it is certifiable he is unfit. Dumbledore doesn't want to oust Fudge. Because he knows if someone competent takes the office, Voldemort's return will be announced, and the war will begin in its earnest. Dumbledore doesn't want that."

He let out an explosive breath and turned away from his friend, his eyes tracking the mountain tops across the valley. "Don't get me wrong, I don't blame Dumbledore for wanting to keep the world sane for a while longer. A year of uneasy peace and shadow wars is a year innocent people will continue living. But I blame him for his inability to protect his students, protect me. I blame him for hiring Snape and keeping that bastard even though he is a spiteful man who loves the fear he invokes in his students. I blame him for making me go back to those hateful Muggles he calls my family, alone, scared and with no idea what's really going on in a war that has me in its centre."

He pinched his nose and forced back his irritation and anger and took a deep breath. Dumbledore is no god, Hermione. He is the further thing from that. He is a calculating man who believes having students tortured is a viable alternative than asking one of his friends — a group that includes aurors — to take on a teaching job for a year or whatever." He chuckled as he turned back to continue their trek, not wanting to continue the tiring conversation for long nor wanting to give Umbridge an excuse to torture him by returning late. "And he sure as hell doesn't care about me none."

"Harry," Hermione began but Harry didn't let her speak.

"Hermione, let's not discuss this anymore, please. I know my lot in life. I accepted there is no end to my pain and torture. I can barely see what's ahead of me, and what I see makes me want to go back, not forward." He exhaled a long breath and shrugged, refusing to look at his friend. "I am tired, Hermione. I am tired and in pain, and I just want to sleep. But when I do, I wake up sweating and screaming. There is no solace."

"Please, don't talk like that," Hermione pleaded in a small voice, the fear in her feeling like a thousand needles pricking his heart.

"This is not living, Hermione. This is surviving, and frankly, it is hard. I don't know how much I can keep at it. Something has to give at some point, and a betting man would scoff at my odds. I'm tired. Tired of the insults, of the pain, of the expectations. When there is no bright light in your future, you live in the present. Well, my present is filled with suffering and pain. I'm not sure I want to live in it."

Hermione didn't say anything, couldn't find anything to say. They walked in silence, Harry wondering if he was a serial killer in a past life to deserve this one while Hermione racked her brains for something to help her friend.

They were past the iron gates and almost at the grand entrance of the castle when the bushy-haired friend of the broken child spoke in a barely audible whisper, "Live for me?"

It was such a sweet sentiment that Harry couldn't help but smile. He placed a gentle kiss to her friend's forehead and whispered, "Who, do you think, keeps me going?"


	2. Ch 2 - You Can't Take the Sky From Me

Harry Potter stumbled through a corridor with unseeing eyes, his feet moving without his conscious input. Faces blurred past him as he walked without balance, judgemental and out of focus. He ignored them; he had learnt a long time ago what a great saying 'ignorance is bliss' was — even if the intent behind the maxim was different. His interpretation of the maxim worked for him, and he knew to use everything useful to his advantage.

Perhaps not.

Because if he knew to take advantage of anything useful, he wouldn't be in this situation, now, would he? _Harry Potter, the delusional, is an easier target than Harry Potter, the Boy-Hero._

The sudden appearance of worried brown eyes and equally brown hair brought him back to the present, giving him vertigo. "Harry, are you okay? What did Professor McGonagall need?"

Burning anger replaced dizziness, blood rushing to his face. "Nothing," he spat. "She needs absolutely nothing from me."

Harry pushed past her, causing his friend to jerk back a step, all eyes on Gryffindor students watching in a fascinated silence. He climbed the stairs to fifth-year boys' dorm two at a time, his footsteps heavy. He returned to the common room shortly after, clutching his broom in a tight fist, breathing through his nose like a bull that sees red. He ignored Hermione and Ron, rushing out the dorm room without a glance in their direction.

Two sets of hurried footsteps followed him as he navigated the maze-like corridors and stairs of what — he felt — was once his home. He found it difficult to think of the castle as home, now. Not when the illusion of safety was destroyed completely. Looking back, he had to admit to himself, it was an illusion he himself cast.

 _Delusional, indeed._

Perhaps the castle felt his less than appreciative thoughts about it, perhaps Gods of Luck wanted to play with his favourite toy; either way, he cursed when the stairs to the lower floor shifted at the same time as the stairs he took, leaving him alone and stranded. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to calm his racing thoughts.

It didn't help.

Harry turned his focus on identifying where he was and finding an alternative route. He sighed when the sight of a familiar painting indicated he was, once again, on the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side. _What is it about this corridor that has me bumbling onto it at most ill-opportune times?_

He remembered all his misadventures on this floor, each as memorable as the other. Perhaps not _as_ memorable, considering one of those adventures included the death of a man while the others mostly included hiding from Filch or Snape or using the statue of One-Eyed Witch to sneak away to Hogsmeade.

 _Good times._

He snorted at his morbid sense of humour, for a moment feeling like a lunatic, and he moved to take a trip down a memory lane and once-forbidden third-floor corridor. Two steps in, the staircases shifted again and the need to have a broom-ride had him march down and out of the castle, ignoring the obviously intentional shoulder-bump by an older Hufflepuff. He had neither the desire nor the patience to walk to the Quidditch pitch and was already on his broom barely two feet out the Grand Entrance.

He closed his eyes, his godfather's gift pointing and travelling towards the sun without a care. Mid-October winds whipped by him, but he didn't feel cold. He liked the wind. It tasted good on his skin.

Feint voices drifted from the recesses of his mind as his anger bled away, leaving behind a world-weary boy. He heard Angelina complain about Umbridge's latest Educational Decree, number whatever, disbanding all student organisations until she approves of them. He heard Umbridge tittering, rejecting their petition to reform the team.

He heard McGonagall's pinched voice, telling him Umbridge refused to allow him to play Quidditch if he continued to lie to the public about what happened on the night of the third task. He heard her tell him there was nothing she could do and that it would be unfair to the other players to keep them from playing a game they loved because of the bad blood between him and Umbridge.

With a shake of his head, Harry opened his eyes, only to lose his breath in amazement at the incredible view. There was absolutely nothing in his vicinity. No mountains, no buildings. No people, nor any animal. Only clouds under him and the soft glow of countless winking stars and sun over. He could find no words to describe the beauty he saw and his brain, sluggish and eager for rest, wasn't up to the task of waxing poetic.

His view darkened slowly but surely at the lack of oxygen at this altitude, and he didn't find a reason to move from where he flew without moving. Perhaps he didn't want to look for a reason. Perhaps there was none.

Moments later, he was at a free fall, not that he was aware.

His consciousness returned far before he was in any danger of colliding with the ground and after a short moment of freaking out, his reflexes kicked in. As natural as he was in the air, it took him no longer to take control of his broom than it took him to think about taking control. _Born to fly._

His heart racing from both adrenaline and with joy, he laughed and zigzagged in the air, urging his broom to the top speed it could afford. He laughed again when a flock of birds screamed murder at him when he almost hit them, and although he knew little about varieties of birds, he knew enough to identify them as eagles. And he felt it too when they clawed at him when he dove right through the flock, even drawing some blood from him.

Harry ignored the stinging pain on his face, his smile no less brilliant. With some reluctance, he slowed his broom, using the bare minimum pressure on it to draw a lazy, descending spiral.

Like a bad case of anxiety, his troubles returned to the forefront of his mind — the drama that drove him to the air, the most prominent of them. McGonagall claimed it was unfair to keep his teammates from playing for his sake, not mentioning how unfair it was to do the same to him.

Perhaps it was the awkwardness of the situation that kept the elderly woman from mentioning it, perhaps cowardness. Whatever her reasons were for ignoring his pain, it didn't matter. The moment McGonagall even mentioned such a possibility to him was the moment the last shred of respect Harry held for her was gone like a plate of chicken wings in front of Dudley. And he doubted the return of it.

He doubted he had the mental maturity or strength to forgive her for abandoning him when he needed her the most. Not when forgiveness sounded so foreign to him of late.

He sighed as he continued his downward spiral, both literally and figuratively. So focused was he on his troubles, he was caught off-guard when a spell slammed into him and threw him off his broom. _Perhaps,_ he thought, _I was too quick to blame the Gods of Luck._ And perhaps he was lucky he was only fifty feet in the air when his descend accelerated against his wishes.

He hit the ground hard, the snap of his wrist breaking was drowned by the sound of his body slamming into the ground, and that was drowned out by a feminine shriek. He laid there, his face half buried on the muddy earth, unmoving, for a few seconds, his mind trying to catch up. The pain hit him hard, stealing a deep moan from him.

Slightly calloused hands pulled him from the ground, turning him over and earning a soundless blessing from him for reliving the pressure on his broken wrist. A look through his half-lidded eyes was enough to identify Ron as his hero, and he promised himself to buy his best friend a pound of sweets whenever the next Hogsmeade visit was.

"Are you okay, mate?" Ron's voice was soft and furious but level-headed, and Harry felt a newfound respect for his friend's composure that never wavered.

Well, almost never. _There was that time with Hagrid's best friend and the countless hairy and humongous children of Hagrid's best friend._

"Left wrist. Broken, I think," Harry said, his voice trembling from pain. Pain that went away as soon as he spoke. The familiar wand of his other best friend — the female one — clued him in on the reason for his respite, and he promised himself to buy his other best friend an obscenely rare book. "Thanks," he breathed out, ignoring how odd it felt not to… feel his lower left arm.

"Oh, Harry! Are you alright?" a slightly hysterical Hermione asked, her brown eyes wide with fright. Her hands found their way to his chest, presumably to check him for injuries.

Harry didn't say a word, his heart drumming against his chest as he looked for his precious broom. He only breathed a sigh of relief when Ron gave him a small grin and picked it up from where it had fallen. "Yeah. What- What the fuck happened?"

Before either of his friends could answer, a sickening voice filled with artificial sugar — or at least that's what the sound felt like to Harry — spoke, "That's a week of detentions for ignoring a direct order from your teacher, Mr Potter." Muffled laughter of more than one people followed the declaration. "And another week for your disgusting language. It goes to show how much the level of instruction has fallen at this school that the students — if you can be called that — have such foul mouths."

Green eyes met muddy brown ones in a glare-off, neither side hiding how much they hated the other. Harry rose to his feet slowly with the aid of his best friends and grimaced when the move jostled his hand, momentarily negating the Numbing Charm Hermione cast. He shrugged off his friends' hands steadying him before taking a step towards the disgusting creature that went by the name of Dolores Umbridge. "You do realise what you did was attempted murder, don't you?"

"Oh, don't be silly," the pink-obsessed woman giggled.

Harry took a deep breath to centre himself and cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. "And what would you call hexing me when I was flying in the air?"

"Forcing compliant from a disrespectful student," Umbridge answered without a pause. She smiled, a sickly thing that was the stuff of nightmares. "Now, just what were you thinking, Mr Potter, flying a broom unauthorised?"

Harry gave a mirthless smile at the sadistic woman, ignoring the restless shifting of Hermione on his left and the calming hand of Ron on his right shoulder. "I was thinking I needed a change of view. Seeing you every day has left me wanting to gouge my eyes out, you see."

Umbridge's false smile turned to a real smile of joy, and all three children facing off against the woman recoiled at the sight. "Ah, but you have a lifelong ban, Mr Potter. I'm afraid that's another two weeks of detention for you. " The glee in the professor's voice was all too clear for anyone to hear. "And let's say another two weeks of detention for insulting a respected member of the faculty. That means you owe me a grand total of six and a half weeks of detentions including the half a week that remains from your attack on another student."

Harry's eyes darted around when he heard laughter and he realised at least a quarter of the student population was watching the show side by side with most of the faculty, including the revered Headmaster. It hurt to see the Headmaster, the man that's supposed to protect him in all things, watching the proceedings with feigned disinterest, and it hurt more when he realised the man still refused to look him in the eye, the sky-blue of his eyes focused above Harry's shoulders.

He took a deep breath and considered leaving things be. _Nah. Let's double down._ "You are, once again, mistaken," he said coldly and loudly. "My ban is for Quidditch. You have neither the authority to ban me from flying nor the power to enforce it."

The sickly smile on Umbridge's face didn't change but her eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared. "Are you questioning my authority, Mr Potter?"

Harry shrugged off the hands both his best friends put on his shoulders and shrugged. "I question everything about you. Your character, your morals, your humanity, your mental faculties. And I find you utterly lacking in all of them, Madam," Harry answered with brutal honesty.

Gasps from the audience followed his declaration. Harry grinned at their reaction, especially at the wince Dumbledore couldn't hide and the disappointment McGonagall exuded. _Blame me, Professors. Tell me I'm paying the price of unruliness. Stab that last dagger and let me be._

"Stop it, Harry!" Hermione furiously whispered but was ignored, Harry's attention on Umbridge and Umbridge only.

Harry, for his part, was having the most fun he had this year. A part of him was aware he was fanning the flames, the flames that wanted to burn him to ashes, but he found letting go of his inhibitions. It was almost as freeing as suffocating while tens of thousands of feet high.

His shit-eating grin got wider when the fake smile on Umbridge's face turned into absolute fury. "Then again, I'm an inquisitive guy," he continued.

His grin was gone then, and he took a few steps forward, closing the short distance to the woman, towering over her, as short as he was. "Do you claim to have said authority, Madam Umbridge? Either way, I suggest you consider your next move very hard. I have long since lost my patience with you."

Umbridge's fury faltered, and she took a reflexive step backwards at the barely restrained anger in the voice of the famous defeater of You-Know-Who. Then again, Harry doubted anyone would accuse Umbridge of being sensible. "Is that a threat?"

"Indeed," Harry answered easily. "You've gotten far too comfortable on your throne. I understand why that would be the case. Not many can claim they turned Albus Dumbledore into their bitch, forcing him to play at being blind while his students are tortured." Harry glanced at the man, enjoying the confusion and shock at his face. "But don't make the mistake of thinking I'm anything like _him_. I'm not afraid of you."

He took another step forward, looking down at his torturer with absolute contempt. "I've stood face to face with monsters, Madam. Monsters your ministry is so afraid of, they mistakenly think I'm a better target. You have nothing on monsters."

A small, honest smile blossomed on Harry's face. "You are nothing," he said, his voice soft and clear. "Your success with my Quidditch ban seems to have emboldened you. Don't let it. I accepted your ban without a fight because I refuse to play for people who stand by and do nothing in the face of injustice. I refuse to play for cowards. Know this, Madam: you will not — You cannot take the sky from me."

Harry's smile turned dark; so dark that Hermione took a step back in shock at the sinister expression. "Go ahead and try. I dare you. I beg of you. Expel me. If you think I give a single fuck about any of this, this school, this country, these people, you are mistaken." He leaned back and clasped his hands behind his back, barely stopping himself from crying out in pain or wincing. He soldiered on, "But know that when the masses wake up to the horrors that await them and they come to me, begging and pleading for another miracle from their miracle boy, my price will be your head."

Absolute silence met Harry Potter's words. And no one knew which shocked them more, the proclamation that he didn't care for the magical community or Hogwarts or the surety of his belief at Voldemort's return.

"Go ahead," Harry whispered, his tone soft and alluring. "Expel me."

Harry thought everyone could hear his rapid heartbeat, it was so silent, and he was so tremulous. No one made a sound for tense minutes, not even Umbridge. She was so still, if not for her colourful clothes that accentuated her pale face, Harry might have mistaken her for a statue. And he smiled in victory. "I'm glad we understand where we stand, Madam."

He patted the catatonic woman on the shoulder softly and calmly walked past her, stopping in front of Dumbledore who watched a few inches over his shoulder. "I will remember this day, Headmaster. To the end of my days, I will remember it. I will remember how you stood by and did nothing when I was almost murdered," he said, lifting his misshapen hand. "How you stood by while a vindictive woman threatened my liberties and person. A man I used to admired once said we had dark times ahead of us. He told us there would come a time when we would have to choose between doing what's right and what's easy."

He felt, more than heard, Ron and Hermione shake out of their stupor and move behind him in an odd show of unity, mired with confusion. "I guess you made it loud and clear with your answer. I hope you sleep well at nights, sir. Because I don't."

With that, Harry walked at a brisk pace towards school, knowing Hermione's numbing charm could fall at any moment. Ron and Hermione weren't far behind him. He even let Ron carry most of his weight once they made it inside the castle proper and the redhead gave the custody of Harry's broom to Hermione.

It was Hermione who broke the silence between them right before they reached Poppy Pomfrey's domain. "You realise you just stirred up the hornet's nest, don't you, Harry? You may have shocked Umbridge to silence for now, but the ministry won't back down."

"Yeah, mate," Ron agreed with a nod and a smile. "A fine mess you've created, I say."

Harry hummed in agreement. "I don't care. She needed to understand she can't take the sky from me."


	3. Ch 3 - Erratic

_The day his problems started was a day like any other; people glared at him and hurried out of his way on the corridors; he attended classes and bared the whispers. The suspicion and nervousness around him had become such a norm that the days were beginning to blend in together; a day of same lows with little to no highs._

 _He was in need of a visit to the bathroom before another delightful class in the dungeons and he told his friends to not wait for him. "No need for Snape to take more points," he said._

 _They complied._

 _That's when things went wrong. As soon as he left the stall after finishing his business, he felt a discharge that had him dropping down with his flies still open and drawing his wand to call upon the shield of magic that was quickly becoming one of his favourite spells. Another spell, an ugly purple splashed against his shield with a low wheezing sound before he could get his bearings, and spells continued to rain down on him from then on, giving him little chance to reorient himself._

 _Still, he had fought against worst odds, and frankly, this disorienting attack wasn't worth to be on his scale of danger. So, he was patient with his attackers while he slowly regained his footing. A glance at the yellow and black ties and the familiar blonde hair gave him the identity of his attackers, though he only knew the name of one: Zacharias Smith._

 _The others in his company were older, and that had Harry reeling. He understood why Zacharias would seek revenge —_ _the fucker —_ _but the hate he could see in other three boys' eyes left him with a knot on his stomach._

 _His shock was quick to leave white, hot, burning anger but that knot remained even as he took the opportunity to retaliate when a spell missed him by a wide margin. His opening salvo was a classic, a disarming charm that left one of the older boys without his tool of torment. Another shield protected him from a soft blue hex meant to turn his hair to stone if he wasn't mistaken._

 _He very rarely was mistaken when discussing his jinxes, hexes, curses and defensive spells._

 _The attackers, now feeling nervous, upped their spellcasting while the fourth hid behind a sink. Zacharias' dilated brown eyes met his narrowed green ones, and he gave a wicked grin at the fear he could see there. He wanted to — nay, needed to make that fear a reality but patience was the key while under an onslaught of spells._

 _Thank god for shield charms._

 _Even as he was driven back a few steps by the erratic attack, he kept his grin, and slowly but surely, nerves got the better of his attackers, their spells missing him by wider margins._

 _He couldn't help himself. It was stupid and needless, but he just had to say it. "Man! I knew no one liked Filch much, but you guys must hate him something fierce to cause so much work for the poor squib."_

 _The lull caused by his comment was short, but it was all Harry needed to turn the tables. A blast of air drove his opponents back and unbalanced them. An arching cutting hex had them drop to the floor in fright. Tiny snaps of his wrist had two of them bound. With only Zacharias having any mobility and with the possession of his wand, Harry relaxed, a wide, shit-eating grin still on his face. "Then there was one."_

 _He took a step forward and opened his arms wide while Zacharias looked around with wide eyes and open mouth. "What was your goal here?" Harry asked. "Revenge for what happened on Hog's Head?" The flare of Zacharias' nose told him he hit the nail on that one, at least about the boy's motives. The others didn't look so affected so he ventured another guess. "Revenge for Cedric?"_

 _You poor, misguided fools._

 _The government was, perhaps, a tad too good at propaganda because it dawned on him suddenly just what large percentage of people that went to school with him was so quick to get on the bandwagon. He was never the most sociable of boys and that certainly cost him support, but this hatred, this eagerness to condemn him went beyond that._

 _It was a flashback of his second and fourth years, and that, more than anything, more than Fudge's stupidity, more than Umbridge's cruelty, more than Dumbledore's avoidance and McGonagall's ignorance, had Harry's blood boil with anger. Oh, sure, he felt lonely and saddened, but more and more, he felt furious._

 _They want blood,_ _Harry thought._ _Well, so do I!_

 _His vision darkened, his focus on Zacharias absolute, and his Phoenix tail and Holly wand came up with vengeance. A cutting hex gave him what he craved, earning a yelp from unprepared Zacharias, blood seeping from his cheek. "I am sick," Harry began just as another flick of his wand had Zacharias doubling over in pain, his stomach protesting the punch-like effects of the hex._

 _"…and tired…" Zacharias flew back, his back hitting the mirror and breaking it, earning a muffled cry from the boy. "…of you all! You don't want to believe me?" Zacharias then found out what Harry felt when his wrist was broken when a bright yellow spell slammed into his left hand._

 _"Fine!" Harry spat, breathing through his nose, his face red with anger. "Just leave me alone!" he screamed, a black mist coalescing around the whimpering boy and_ _squeezing and burning_ _._

 _The screams were loud and clear, echoing off the halfway destroyed bathroom walls. Harry heard them; he saw Zacharias claw at his throat and scratch every inch of skin he could find; but the reality of the situation hit Harry only after a minute, and hit him it did, like an out of control freight train. He reeled back, his wand dropping from his slack hold, the world returning to focus with a dizzying vengeance. His stomach churned at what he had just done, bile rising through his throat, burning its way out and driving him to his knees, dry heaving._

 _Before he could regain his breath, a powerful and angry kick to his head had him stumbling back and rolling on the dirty floor of the toilet. More kicks followed, not letting up, not giving him a moment to regain his focus. It was disorientation, not pain that kept him from defending himself but the result was the same._

 _Time meant nothing just then. There was only the pain and disorientation, and the horror of what he did. It could have been minutes before he lost consciousness; it could have been hours._

 _He was tight-lipped about what happened when he woke up in the hospital wing, refusing to say a single word about what happened. Not even when everyone assumed it was fear that stayed his tongue. They were right in a sense. It was fear. Not of his attackers, certainly. Not even of punishment. It was the fear of himself._

 _The faculty tried to keep what happened to Harry a secret, so it was quick to travel through the school's over-eager mouths. Stories the students came up with were wild and each was more unsubstantiated than the one before, but no one claimed knowledge. Not even in the privacy of their close friendships, and Zacharias refused to look at Harry's direction, often refusing even to walk the same corridors as him._

 _Slowly but surely, the excitement died down and students found themselves new things to gossip about. That sixth year Slytherin was in a scandalous relationship with that fourth year Hufflepuff, and did you hear what happened when Snape caught two Ravenclaws in a dusty classroom?_

 _For Harry, the effects of that schoolyard fight were far more reaching than for any of his peers, perhaps even Zacharias and the fools he roped into his foolish plot. That fear, the fear of that monster hiding in his chest was all-consuming and all-present. He was pretty sure the constant ticking he could hear on the back of his head was his imagination but its effect on his academic performance was not._

 _The new nightmare plaguing Harry Potter first showed itself when he tried to summon his bag from where it was a few feet from him. The bag flapped where it was pitifully before spilling its contents on the carpet adorning the Gryffindor common room. He ignored it and his second casting was successful. But it was the start of a new trend, and it got worse, fast._

 _It is a nightmare,_ Harry thought as he sat in charms class, _or just another day in the life of Harry bloody Potter._

He was living the next stage of his nightmare: trying and failing to cast a simple derivative of the animation charm. The spell was meant to make the wooden doll dance, something Harry should have no problems with, but no matter what he tried, he couldn't control the charm. The spell either didn't work or it got out of him and turned the doll do unimaginable things that would have left it traumatised if it had the capacity.

And he hated it. He hated himself for failing such a simple thing the rest of the class had no problems with. There was an itch on the back of his head because of the constant nervous and worried looks his two best friends kept throwing. Professor Flitwick's puzzled glances and kind, helpful words were doing a number on his already waning patience.

He tried again, softly whispering the magic words, moving his wand in a perfect dance and wishing with all his being for this humiliation to end.

 _Maybe you are not wishing strong enough,_ the snarky part of his mind mocked him.

This wasn't a new development for Harry Potter. Since the earliest moment he could remember, he had this side of him, a cynical side with a taste for revenge, Snape of his own if you will. He rarely acted on the desires of this Snapian side of his segmented personality; he was stronger than that.

 _But boy, oh boy, does it get harder every second I spend in this school for special kids._

 _Both kinds of special._

Harry shook his head and tried to focus on the small doll on his desk that refused to move a wooden muscle.

 _Bitch._

He took a deep breath and ignored the whispers coming from his classmates; whispers that mocked him for his lack of talent. Whispers that questioned his story, not believing he could escape Voldemort if he were truly back.

He felt a burning sensation flow from his spine to his right arm and out of his wand. _Not again_ _, he sighed._

Until that year, Harry would describe the flow of his magic as a tingling sensation that always left him giddy and high. Magic was its own reward, in a sense. But now, it was a burning sensation, a punishment. He blamed Fudge and Umbridge for it.

 _When in doubt, blame the government._

The doll spasmed on the desk before its wooden hands moved to its face, slapping itself continuously. Harry and the rest of the class watched in fascination as the doll beat itself raw, tiny splinters shooting out each time one of its hands made contact.

Harry sagged on his seat. _Fucking fuck. Fuck!_

"That's enough for today," said a sombre Flitwick, shooing them out of the class but not before throwing Harry one last sad and disappointed look that questioned his worth as a wizard. At least, that's what it felt like.

Flitwick had always been one of Harry's favourite teachers, right on the top with Hagrid and Remus. He was a man who loved his job and that love bleed as a desire to make him proud to his students, or at least Harry.

The green-eyed boy felt terrible for disappointing one of the only people he had left to respect. _It isn't as if I'm not trying,_ he tried to console himself, but it was weak and without any convictions.

 _Convictions. Bah! I had those once. I believed in things, in people. Now, what do I have?_

 _You have power. More than any of these fools can comprehend. You could have the world serving at your feet, instead of allowing them to revel in your torture and pain._

 _I felt other people's fear before. I want none._

 _Yet, you threatened Umbridge without hesitation! You showed those four fools the perils of messing with you. Didn't that make you feel good? Righteous anger! That's your biggest strength._

 _Yet, I'm tired of being angry all the time. Oh, so tired._

Harry was brought out of his musings when the trio entered Transfiguration classroom, taking their usual seats in the middle of the room. The green-eyed wizard watched with a small smile as Hermione opened her mouth and closed it, finding it irritatingly amusing. "Hermione, say your piece. Your hesitation is an insult to our friendship."

The brown-eyed girl nodded and took a deep breath, bracing herself for a potential blow out. "Don't you think it's time for you to ask for help? You haven't been able to cast the simplest spells in over two weeks."

Harry put his chin on his palm, his elbow resting on the table. "Ask for whose help exactly?" he asked with a careless and a tiny bit defeated shrug. "Since when asking for help gotten us anywhere?"

"I realise you don't want to hear it, Harry." Hermione looked at him with pleading eyes that tugged at his heartstrings.

 _I'd do almost anything when you look at me like that, Hermione._

"You must go to Dumbledore."

 _Almost anything._

Harry exhaled an explosive breath, pushing down the irritation at the typical suggestion. "I wouldn't go to Dumbledore for help if I was dying of thirst in the middle of a desert and he was watering down the sands," he said, not seeing McGonagall enter. "He ignored my suffering one too many times."

"Am I interrupting, Mr Potter, or can I begin my lesson?" McGonagall said before they could continue their discussion, her tone brisk at the perceived insult at a respected figure.

"You are." Harry leaned back on his seat, using McGonagall as a convenient target for his ire, refusing to expose his friends to it.

"Excuse me?" The ageing teacher straightened in disbelief.

"You are excused," Harry announced magnanimously, ignoring the outraged and excited gasps of his fellow students. "Go on, then. We are here to learn, not to stare at each other," he added when McGonagall stood frozen.

"That cheek cost you twenty points and a week's worth detention with Professor Umbridge, Mr Potter."

Harry smiled without mirth. "I am so heartbroken."

 _Good! Use your sarcasm, boy. Let it flow through you._

He snorted lightly. _My dark side is lame._

McGonagall threw one last glare before beginning her lecture, her tone more crisp than normal, that took half of the class time.

"Don't forget, you need to be precise with your wand movements and incantation and have a clear picture of the changes you want in mind," she warned as several rats hovered to the students after her long monologue. "Animate to animate transfiguration is the first step in the human transfiguration. And a dangerous branch in and of itself. Be careful and precise. I don't think the world is ready for another accident like the creation of Quintapeds."

Harry knew what was coming; knew he would fail. _Transfiguration is much harder than Charms._

Still, he tried; with everything he had. His first ten tries earned him nothing but squeaks from the tortured animal and a twitching leg that begged for the sweet release of death. _Come on, Potter! How hard can this be if even Pettigrew could do it?_

His frustration at his failure and anger at remembering the betrayer bled through his casting. The results were… disturbing, to say the least. At first, the rat grew. Then, the poor bastard mutated randomly; sprouting extra arms, a head, weird looking eyes, tentacles and much, much more. After becoming the ugliest abomination to walk on earth that would give Voldemort a pause, the thing exploded, showering Harry and Hermione in blood and internal organs.

The class, including McGonagall, froze in disbelief and disgust, looking at Harry with wide eyes and open mouths. "Oops."

That unfroze McGonagall. "Mr Potter! I warned you to take this seriously. If you will make a mockery of my class, you may as well leave!"

Harry cocked his head to a side, looking at his teacher curiously, contemplating her words. "That's the smartest idea you ever had, Professor," he agreed before calmly putting his parchment and inkwell in his bag.

"If you walk out of that door, young man, you won't be allowed back to my class. I hope you know of that," McGonagall warned in a challenging tone.

 _Watch me walk, then._

"Don't worry, I think I'll live," Harry commented offhandedly as he walked to the door.

"I hope you make your parents proud in your OWL exams," McGonagall said, her tone a mixture of anger, dark sarcasm and sadness.

Harry stopped in his tracks, unable to believe what he heard. He whirled around, his eyebrows raised and eyes wide open. "Wow! What a masterful show of professionalism with a dash of emotional manipulation. Using the dead parents of an orphan boy to score a point." He slow clapped and bowed. "Bravo. That was Snape levels of cruel." His voice dropped low as a whisper, still carrying over the classroom. "I'm sure my dead parents would be proud to have fought by your side and died for it."

He whirled around again and marched out of the class, unwilling to let anyone see his angry tears. _Yep. That's a new low._

He walked the corridors with no destination in mind, taking his anger out on the stone tiles of the floor and the stairs, McGonagall's words ringing in his ears. His semi-therapeutic march brought him to the library, and he walked in, thinking it's a good place as any.

"Aren't you supposed to be in class?" asked the surprised librarian, making Harry jump.

"Merlin! You scared me," Harry said, a hand on his chest. "I got kicked out for being an embarrassment to my parents," he quipped, though the humour was weak in his voice.

"You are welcome to be an embarrassment to whoever you want in here so long as you respect the sanctity of my books," the stern librarian said, the unsaid threat obvious in her narrowed eyes.

"Thanks." Harry stood in his spot, ideas running through his head. He steeled his resolve and did what Hermione suggested. "Let's say I have a friend who is having trouble casting spells he never had problems with. Which book would you suggest he start his investigation for the possible reasons?" Seeing the softening of the librarian's expression, he added, "Hypothetically speaking."

 _Success,_ _his sarcastic side snarked at his half-arsed cover up._

"Follow me," Pince ordered, walking briskly towards the end of the library, and to Harry's surprise, opened the doors to Restricted Section. She walked past a few rows and took a right, stopping a few feet in and taking a book off a shelf before continuing. She took out two more books while she navigated the labyrinth of a library and gently handed them to Harry. "Read these. Be gentle with them. They are old and fragile," she warned sternly, the pity returning a moment later. "I can't let you take them out of the restricted section, but you are welcome here any time. Provided you don't prove yourself a menace."

"Thanks, Madam Pince," Harry said. His shoulders sagging in defeat, he added, "And I promise I'll be careful with the books. I can't even cast a reparo anymore, so it's not like I have the licence to be careless."

The woman awkwardly patted Harry on the shoulder and threw him one last pitiful glance before returning to her desk.

The green-eyed not-so-wizard-anymore sighed and found himself a desk. He looked around for a source of light in the dark library, finding an oil lamp. He palmed his wand reflexively before remembering he would either fail or burn down the library if he cast a fire-making charm. The Lumos charm was another spell that continued to escape Harry, often resulting in explosions that had Seamus take notes.

He resigned himself to reading under the cover of darkness, seeing as both his options were liable to destroy Pince's precious books. Harry didn't want that. That lady was scary.

He chuckled darkly and sat, not too heartbroken about the situation. He was used to reading in absolute darkness from his time in Privet Drive.

 _Merlin, my time in Privet Drive. I sound like an ex-convict lost in remembrance._

 _You will return to prison_ , he reminded himself, _don't go thinking your life is your own to live._

He began his study with a book on magical theory; more precisely, a book who discussed the theories on the physiological origins of human magic. Putting the one on wizard psychology and something called obscurus aside for later.

The book was, in a word, fascinating. And most of it made sense. Okay, the parts that didn't speak of gibberish that required a Hermione-like brain to translate made sense. The book, almost two centuries old, was written by a German wizard who had done extensive research on the function of bone marrow in creating new blood cells and its effect on a person's magic. In a nutshell, he theorised that bone marrow was somehow the source of nutrition for a wizard's magic, if not the source itself.

The theory mostly matched Harry's experiences with casting magic; his spine was often the origin of the tingling of magic's flow.

The writer mentioned a few other theories about the subject too, sharing his thoughts on them, most of them not so politely. Harry was so fascinated; he missed dinner and would have missed the curfew if the librarian hadn't come to kick him out politely.

Before he left, Harry shelved the books under Pince's stern gaze. "Madam Pince, do you know if I can buy personal copies of these books?"

"You'd probably find a few copies in bookstores if you know where to look, but they are expensive," the librarian answered.

"How expensive?"

"I expect each would be over a hundred galleons," the stern lady answered, crossing her arms, tapping her foot in impatience.

"Damn. I'll need to hit the Gringotts before I can buy them. That's at least a few months." Harry massaged his forehead as he thought ways around his restrictions.

Harry looked up when an idea hit him, smiling brightly at the stern woman. "How about if I give you my key and you buy them whenever you have the time. In exchange, you can use my vault to buy any other books you need too."

"Don't be ridiculous, boy," she refused right off.

"No, I'm serious. My vault is impressive, and I don't need all that money. This way, someone will put it to good use, at least." When the sceptical expression on her face didn't change, he explained further. "Madam Pince, don't let my clothes fool you. I'm rich. I lead a spartan lifestyle by choice. I have no use for most material things. Besides, I'd rather the money I inherited, _not earned_ , to do good."

Her expression softened but her resolve didn't soften as much. "Fine. I could think of a few recently published books library could use. If you insist, I'll accept a hundred galleons donation from you."

"A thousand," Harry bargained. "You are doing me a big favour."

"Three hundred, and that's my final offer. Take it or leave it."

Harry snorted at the brisk 'offer' but agreed. "You drive a hard bargain, madam."

The librarian's lips curved upward in amusement when Harry practically threw her his vault key. "Get out of here before you get caught out."

"Yes, madam. As you wish, madam."

"Cheeky brat."

"Scary librarian."

Harry had known Irma Pince for five years, and he couldn't help but feel sad that he missed out on this side of her, helpful and sharp-witted. Not that he could blame Pince for her stern attitude, at least towards him. He had never been the one to stay an extra voluntary second in the library. He was a man - ahem, boy - of action, not a scholar.

Madam Pince delivered the books four days later when Harry walked in for another go at the psychology book, having spent more than a few hours every day in those four days pouring over that damn book, trying to understand it.

Harry gave one look at the large stack of books on Pince's desk in confusion and whispered conspiratorially, "I don't know if you realise this, but I think there are more than three books on your desk."

The old lady's lips quirked in amusement. "I can count, Mr Potter, but thank you for worrying over my math skills. I took the initiative to buy a few other books I thought might interest you."

"Few?" Harry parroted and pointed at the stack. "There are over a dozen books there."

"The bookstore had a sale."

"Must have been one heck of a sale," Harry commented as he read the titles. _Trauma and Magic_ ; _Strong Mind, Strong Magic; Beating the Odds; The Magic of Math; The Math of Magic; Calm Your Magic; Obscure Facts on Obscuruses; Shine a Light on The Dark;_ and many more.

"You have friends out there, Mr Potter. People who feel like they owe you their support for what you did fourteen years ago and for what's happening now. Things may seem dark and dreary here, but many people believe you; believe in you." The librarian smiled encouragingly at the teary-eyed boy. "Whatever you are going through, you are not alone."

"Tha-" Harry cleared her throat and tried again. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

"You are welcome." She pointed at the stack with her head. "Now, get out of here. You are crowding my beautiful library with its shiny, new books."

Harry grinned and stuck out his tongue, taking one of the rare chances to act like a kid. "You are mean."

"That, I am. You would be too if you had to deal with spoilt brats who think a library is a great place for a make-out session."

Harry leaned forward, putting his elbows on the woman's desk and his chin on his palm, his eyes shining. "Tell me every detail."

"Get out of here." As the boy collected his new books, she added, "And don't you dare use my library as a romantic getaway when you find yourself a girlfriend."

"Where else would I take her but to a mouldy library with dusty old books and a humourless librarian?" Harry quipped, hurrying his movements.

"Did you just call my library mouldy?" the woman asked with faux outrage, ignoring the jibe on herself. "You know what? I'll take those books back, thank you."

Harry trotted out, yelling over his shoulder, "No way. My books. Mine, I said!"

"Mouldy, he says. Kids these days."

His new relationship with the librarian turned into a much-needed respite for Harry, taking second place after the air as his favourite relaxation place. He spent hours there every day, reading his books, enjoying bantering with the lonely librarian. The normally stern woman was a delight when they were alone, acting as a sympathetic ear when Harry needed venting and a quirky lady when Harry needed cheering.

And he had the feeling the librarian enjoyed their newfound link as well, needed it as Harry did. Harry didn't ask questions, but he wondered why she would choose such a lonely place to work when her vast knowledge would grant her any job title she wanted. Oh, he knew the other teachers socialised, but Irma Pince was a loner, not venturing outside of her library.

But he didn't need to know. He savoured their odd friendship.

Harry spent enough time there for people to notice. It was Hermione who first questioned his new love of dusty books. "It is less crowded," Harry would say whenever she asked, knowing she didn't believe him. Ron would often mutter that 'know-it-allitus' must be infectious, sparking a fight between the three of them to see who could find the cleverest ways to insult the other two.

He enjoyed the books immensely but had trouble turning the things he learned to reality. His magic was still acting out, and Harry had trouble understanding why and how he could solve it.

Still, he didn't let his failure keep him down. If Harry Potter was one thing, it was stubborn. He had just received a second wind in the form of a new hobby and a friend, and he wasn't about to squander this small miracle. When he needed a break from the psychology and magical theory, he studied transfiguration and potions. He had a burning desire to make both Snape and McGonagall eat their words.

He also enjoyed the nervousness he induced in Umbridge whenever he in her class. The woman was shaken up by his threat and couldn't decide how to act. She would still goad of Harry, but they were less effective and less sure.

Her place as his chief tormentor was taken, gladly, by Snape. The bastard enjoyed insulting Harry, even taking it to a new level, now knowing neither Dumbledore nor McGonagall would lift a finger to help him. Harry decidedly didn't let it get to him, enjoying pushing the man and ignoring the detentions he was collecting.

 _Dumbledore may not protect me but he, sure as hell, won't let anyone expel me._

 _Because he needs you. He has a use for you he hasn't shared yet._

 _Meh._

 _He's still powerful, and a threat to you. You can't allow him the chance to pull your strings._

He was... not happy, but he wasn't on the edge of insanity with his legs dangling anymore. He was standing next to the cliff, staring at the abyss and contemplating his life. He knew winds of change were coming, that this delicate balance he found amidst the tragedy would come to an end soon, but he wasn't worried.

At least not as worried.

 _My magic summarises my life perfectly_ , Harry thought as he gazed at the sky from his seat perched on a window in the Regular Section of the library. _It's wanton and erratic._


	4. Ch 4 - Fun and Games

_Delicious..._

 _No!_

 _Work... Master..._

 _The delicious tasting redhead stirred and stood up._

"Harry!"

 _Attack... Master..._

 _No!_

 _Important work..._

"Harry!"

 _The snake reared back and struck once, twice, three times. Its teeth sinking into the redheaded creature, pumping venom._

 _Delicious..._

 _No!_

"Harry! Wake up, mate! Harry!"

Harry's eyes flew open and he jumped out of bed, his arms raised to defend himself. It took him a long while to process where he was and who he was seeing.

"You were having a nightmare, mate," Ron told him, his eyes full of worry as he looked down at Harry.

Harry shook his head to get his bearings, the searing pain in his scar making things... thoughts blurry. "No... Not a nightmare..." Harry shook his head vehemently as he remembered what he saw. "Your dad... Vision..."

"You are not making any sense," Ron informed him gently, holding out a glass. "Have some water. Take deep breaths."

Harry complied, unable to formulate his own thoughts so trusting Ron to do his thinking. The cold water was a balm to his inflamed body, clearing his head little by little, and Ron's calm voice helped. He drank calmly until he was aware of the comprehend full impact of the vision. His eyes shot up, wide and full of fear as he looked around the room. "We need to get to Dumbledore. Your dad was attacked by Nagini."

"What?" Ron asked, uncomprehending for a moment.

Harry wanted to explain further, but time was of the essence and they needed to get to Dumbledore, no matter how much he hated needing _his_ help. "Neville, wake Hermione up," he told the chubby boy who was watching him from his bed with wide eyes. "Ron, we need to go to Dumbledore's office, now! Dean, Seamus. One of you, go tell McGonagall to get her arse there."

He didn't wait for anyone to acknowledge his orders; he grabbed Ron by the arm and tried to drag him to their destination. Tried being the operative word.

His legs had other ideas and they refused to obey his orders, causing him to falter and almost fall. Ron caught him before he could headbutt the floor, confusion still all over his freckled face. "Okay, mate. I got you. I'll get you to Dumbledore's office."

Harry nodded dumbly as the redhead took the lead, half-carrying him out of the dormitory, down the stairs and out of the tower.

It took them a long time to reach the office while Harry counted every second, cursing his weak body for failing him at such a time. When they reached the gargoyle, another problem presented itself. "Fucking idiot!" Harry screamed as his tenth attempt at guessing the password failed.

"That's ten points and a week's worth of detention, Mr Potter," he heard McGonagall say in a pronounced Scottish accent. "Now, why did you have your classmate wake me up at this ungodly hour and send me here?"

"I need to talk to Dumbledore right now," Harry answered, impatient and far too much in pain to put up with McGonagall's crap.

"Why do you need to talk to _Headmaster_ Dumbledore, Mr Potter?" the professor asked, her tone pinched, making it obvious she would drag things out.

Harry glared at the woman. "Because Arthur Weasley is dying right now!"

McGonagall looked unsure for a moment but decided to drag her feet, as she was wont to do whenever something important happened. "And how did you come by this information?"

Harry staggered back, unable to believe her blasé attitude before his eyes narrowed and filled with venom. "None of your business. Now, tell me the password."

McGonagall crossed her arms, looking down at Harry. "I cannot give the password to such an important figure's office to a student — an unruly one at that — without a good reason."

Harry didn't bother saying anything; he turned around and started listing the names of every candy he knew, an uncomfortable Ron assisting him. They succeeded after what felt like hours, running up the revolving stairs as fast as he could, his legs obeying him once again. He didn't bother knocking; he barged in to find Dumbledore sitting on his desk with a pile of parchments on his desk, rubbing his forehead. Dumbledore looked up at the intrusion but when as soon as he saw Harry, he looked away.

 _Arsehole._

"Dumbledore, Nagini attacked Mr Weasley while he was guarding... something, I don't know what. He needs help right away!" Harry said breathlessly, hoping against hope that Dumbledore would act.

The old man looked up at Harry in surprise before what he said registered and he jumped out of his seat, far more agile than Harry would have thought. "Everard?" he said, confusing the two young boys. "And you too, Dilys."

Two of the portraits of past headmasters — and mistresses — lifted their heads from their pretend-sleep. "The man has red hair and glasses," Dumbledore informed the portraits. "Everard, you will need to raise the alarm; make sure he is found by the right people."

The two magical portraits nodded and left their frame.

"Everard and Dilys are amongst Hogwarts' most celebrated heads," the aged headmaster informed them needlessly, giving Harry the impression that he was uncomfortable with waiting silently. He continued blabbing about them, but Harry ignored him, his eyes finding the black pearls of Fawkes who was studying him intently.

Harry cocked his head to a side; Fawkes cocked his head to a side. Of all the times Harry had been in the room with the phoenix, including the time the bird had a burning day and the time it saved Harry's life, the boy had never felt this uncomfortable.

 _I never noticed how judgemental its eyes are. And this slight... fear? apprehension? Whatever it is I feel, I don't like it, especially about such a creature._

A part of Harry wanted to rave at the scarlet immortal for making him feel this way, while the other part yearned for even the slightest sign of approval from it.

 _I hate having fucking emotions._

"Tell me about the vision," Dumbledore ordered him, disrupting the boy's concentration.

"What about it?" Harry asked without feeling the need to look away from his one-time saviour.

"What was your perspective? Were you watching from a third-person view or were you in the scene?"

At that, Harry turned to his headmaster and chuckled when he saw the old man was still refusing to look at him. "Why do you ask?"

"Humour me," Dumbledore answered in a toneless voice.

A shake of his head and roll of his eyes were the boy's answer. "I don't think now is the time for jokes, Professor."

Dumbledore gazed disappointedly at a point above Harry's shoulder, making the green-eyed wizard wonder about the man's sanity if he thought that would work. He glared at the man, pushing all his anger to his burning eyes. "Don't mistake this for a plea for you to psycho-analyse me, Dumbledore. I'm here because Mr Weasley's well-being is more important to me than my disgust at your actions — or lack thereof — this year."

The whitened wizard said nothing as he locked his fingers, his eyes losing focus even more.

Harry turned his gaze at the bird of fire to find the creature still observing him. Something in his green eyes must have changed as the bird took one look at it and disappeared in a ball of fire.

 _Et Tu, Fawkes. Well, fu-_

The bird appeared above a glass case holding the Sword of Gryffindor. The creature gently landed on the case and sang an encouraging tune that... encouraged Harry to pick up the sword.

Harry took a step towards the case and cocked his head. "I don't think it's a good idea for me to arm myself with a sword while I'm in the same room as your... wrinkly friend over there," Harry said, waving a careless and disrespectful hand to the said wrinkly friend.

The tune coming from the bird changed to a more upbeat melody, causing Harry to crack a genuine smile.

"I'm a funny guy like that," Harry answered the bird with no clue as to what Fawkes was trying to tell him if anything. "Do you want me to take the sword?"

The immortal bobbed his head; an action that reminded Harry of Hedwig, causing the boy's smile to turn softer. Harry bobbed his head back and closed the distance to the case.

In an odd twist of things, as the distance closed between Harry and the legendary sword, the green-eyed wizard felt familiar tingles run up and down on his arms and spine.

He raised his right arm and glanced between it and the sword. When he stopped, the tingles turned static like a ghost of a touch. When he moved his arms or torso, the tingles fluctuated, travelling once again.

 _What the... This is odd,_ _he thought unnecessarily as he walked the last feet._

"I'm afraid I can't let you take the sword, Mr Potter," Headmaster informed him from his throne-like seat behind his antique oak desk. "The sword is school property."

"Is it though? If Godric Gryffindor wanted the school to have the sword, he wouldn't have hidden it so only 'a worthy Gryffindor, a real Gryffindor' could find it." He turned around and gave both Dumbledore and McGonagall a look of contempt. "Your words, not mine. Besides, it's your bird's idea."

Dumbledore, still avoiding eye contact, smiled kindly. "Fawkes is an eccentric bird who often has childish ideas."

"Hm. Then again, he saved my life. What have you done for me to trust your counsel?"

The old man tensed in his seat. "I can't allow a child to have such a dangerous weapon."

Harry rolled his eyes at the twitchy, obscene man. "Right. A child can save lives, fight monsters, save your job, compete in a famously deadly tournament and get tortured, but a sword? Merlin, no! That's just fucking crazy."

Most people would miss the tiny grimace of Dumbledore but Harry wasn't most people "You may have faced some... unpleasant situations, but I can't trust you with a weapon a small cut by which could kill a man in minutes, if not seconds."

"You are so full of shit," Harry chuckled and ignored the admonishment that followed from an indignant McGonagall. "You act like a reluctant leader, like this perfect representation of a humble force for good but you are nothing of the sort. You, Dumbledore, are a scheming, cruel and cowardly old man who has lost sight of reality. You sit on your throne in your ivory tower, twiddle your thumbs and suck candy while your students, children entrusted into your care are tortured."

Harry shook his head in disappointment as he raised his arms, palms looking to the sky. "You are one of those bigger picture types. Those who don't give a damn who gets fucked so long as their goals are met. You will gladly let people get tortured and killed if it fits, or at least doesn't hurt, your agenda - whatever that is. You don't give a shit about the people. God, I pity the poor bastards who follow you in this war."

Dumbledore, in a move that shocked everyone, except a grinning Harry, slammed his fists down on the table and made eye contact with Harry for the first time. "How dare you accuse me of being such a heartless man?" the old man hissed, anger and hurt fighting for domination on his face. He took a deep breath, presumably to centre himself before he sat back down with a sigh, giving Harry a profoundly saddened look. "I know things look grim from your small perspective, dear boy. I understand your frustration, but we all must make sacrifices if we are to defeat this evil plaguing our world. I am sorry I cannot do more to help you with all the injustices you face. But our world sits on a delicate balance, and I must do all in my power to keep that balance, lest we lose more than we already have."

The elder man petted his beard in frustration even as he kept his ice-blue eyes on Harry's, no sign of twinkle in them. "Do not think I am unsympathetic to your plight, but I must choose between your good and the good of all."

Harry's grin turned feral. "Of course, _sir_ ," he spat. "As I said, people don't matter." He whirled and broke the glass case with a punch.

 _Shit; shit; shit! That hurt!_

He grabbed the sword by the pommel and lifted it out of its spotless iron holder. "Well, this boy doesn't care about what you think or say," he informed the wide-eyed old man, the sword pointing right at his white beard with blood dripping down its side.

Before either could say anything else, Fawkes flew off from his now-broken perch and landed on Harry's arms, its head tilted. Harry was surprised to find the bird oddly weightless, but his surprise took a backstage to the sweet release of the tears for the second time in his life as the cuts on his bloody hand healed.

As soon as Harry's hand returned to health, Fawkes flew off again, leaving the office with a warbled melody following in his wake.

Again, before either Harry or Dumbledore could say anything else, an interruption occurred, this time in the form of a knock by Hermione. "I'm sorry. Neville couldn't climb the girls' stairs, so he had to yell for someone to come down," Hermione explained after Dumbledore bid her to enter.

No one said anything, the tension in the room not allowing anyone to comment on such a trivial matter.

"What happened?" Hermione asked Harry in a whisper when she neared him, looking pointedly at his freshly healed, bloody hand.

 _So very near._

"Nagini, Voldemort's monstrous snake, attacked Mr Weasley while he was guarding whatever weapon it is Voldemort wants," Harry explained, chancing a glance at Dumbledore to find out if his theory is correct. The aged headmaster's groan of frustration confirmed it, though Harry felt pity for the talking to he was sure to receive.

Hermione's hand went to her mouth and she turned towards a silent and distracted Ron. "Is he okay?"

"They have taken him to St. Mungo's," a returning portrait answered. "Dumbledore, he looked bad. He was covered in blood and-"

"Thank you," Dumbledore cut the portrait off before turning to his deputy, and Harry had to respect his desire to keep them from the gruesome details. "Minerva, I need you to wake the rest of the Weasley children."

"Of course," the woman said and hurried to the door before stopping. "Albus, what about Molly?"

Harry blocked out what Dumbledore was saying and turned to his redheaded friend to console him, only to find him in Hermione's desperate embrace.

The green-eyed wizard's mouth twisted in an awkward mixture of a gentle smile and an envious frown. A mixture of jealousy and fondness fighting for domination. He felt cut off but ignored it. He glanced around him and found everyone occupied. Most of Dumbledore's torso was in a drawer of his desk, giving Harry the urge to snort at the ridiculous things magic could achieve.

The boy shrugged and left the room with his new, bloody sword in his hand. _Weasleys will descend upon there soon. No need to be underfoot._

Harry spent the next two days in an anxious state, wondering if his friend's father was okay, obsessing over the door the man was guarding and worrying about the inconsistent behaviour of his own magic.

After finishing the books Irma bought for him, he still had no concrete theories on why his magic was so fucked up. He had leads though.

The writer of _Trauma and Magic_ claimed traumatic events could have unpredictable effects on a child's magic; that it could change the behavioural patterns of the said magic. It could have such an immense effect on a child's psyche, and as a result, they might refuse, instinctively, to use the magic of certain type associated with the trauma. Or it could create a fascination in the child that resulted in a prodigy.

Harry thought that sounded likely, that he might be _that_ broken.

In _Obscure Facts on Obscuruses,_ the writer talks about an… alignment. A sickness. After a traumatic event, generally associated with a negative connotation on magic, a child could begin to see their magic as a problem, rejecting it. Magic does not like that. No, sir. If the said child represses his magic to a certain point, the magic could react in dangerous ways, attacking both the child and the whatever dangers it perceives in the environment.

The thing about Obscuruses was no one became one after they were eleven-year-old, and no one survived to reach eleven. So, while Harry certainly suffered a trauma, hell his whole life was a series of trauma's with brief respites, he couldn't be on the process of becoming an obscurus.

And all in all, it didn't make sense to him.

None of that explained what he was going through. Harry didn't hate magic. Or at least, he didn't think he did. And yes, while he saw the awful side of it, he also saw the wonders of it.

 _But in either case, he understood his problem was mostly psychological. That's why he decided to make a list —_ _the list_ _. A list of all the important events in his life, from the rare times Vernon got physical, to his greatest triumphs._ He wrote everything down on the list, analysing their effects on him as objectively as possible.

And he reached the conclusion that… he was so messed up that he didn't know where to begin sorting himself out.

As he was getting ready to leave the school for Christmas, another mystery resurfaced. As soon as he had returned from Dumbledore's office the night of the attack on Mr Weasley, Harry had hidden the Sword of Gryffindor and forgotten about it until now.

Now, looking at the work of art and the tool of war, he wondered why Fawkes would want him to have it. What the majestic bird wanted him to do with it.

 _I don't think he wants me to use it. That'd make no sense in a world with wands and shit._

He wrapped sword in one of his old — Dudley tested — clothes and put it in his trunk. _If worst comes to worst and Sirius makes another stupid joke about why I should lose my virginity to combat my anger issues, I can carve him out a new arsehole._

He shouldered his trunk; his magic having behaved long enough for him to cast a semi-successful weight-reducing charm. Before leaving the castle, he visited the library to say goodbye to his newest… friend, for lack of a better word. After a short chat and a few semi-funny quips about the woman's mouldy library and his inability to bring any beautiful witches there, he trekked to the train, Hermione and Neville joining him on the way.

The train hadn't been on the move for an hour yet when Malfoy came for his traditional visit. "I see your friends have abandoned you, Scarhead. They must've realised what a disappointment you are, even if the ginger-heads are disappointment all by themselves."

Harry felt Hermione put a restraining hand on his arm but ignored it. "Could be. Or it could be that your little bastard of a master attacked their father."

Malfoy didn't even have the decency to look surprised, smirking cruelly. "Maybe he should've thought about that before he became involved with the likes of you, the mudblood and Dumbledore."

Harry's eyes narrowed and hands twitched towards his wand reflexively, Hermione's hand preventing him from drawing it. Not that he thought he could do anything more with it than poke the blonde's eyes out.

 _Hmm. A blind ferret? Me likey._

"I saw that," the blonde announced triumphantly, his smirk turning into a satisfied grin. "You can't even cast a Lumos. What could you hope to do with a wand?"

Harry's cheek flushed but he restrained himself from showing how much the boy's words affected him. "I could shove it up your arse to add flavour to your shitty life. How is the life of servitude treating you? Has Voldemort demanded you prostrate yourself yet? Or for your mother to take the knee for the team? I hear his special club is mainly a boy's club, and that must get tiring after a while and your mother is a beautiful woman, sure to add… certain enjoyment to their meetings."

Harry couldn't help but smile in satisfaction as he watched the pale boy's face got redder and redder as he talked.

"Don't talk about my mother that way, Potter!"

"Aw. Draco, do you suffer from Oedipus complex? Is that why you are all worked up?" he asked in a sweet voice. "Don't worry if you are having naughty dreams about your own mother. I do too. Sadly, I'm not a necrophiliac, and your mother is colder than a corpse."

This time, it was the blonde's hand that went to his wand, though he restrained from drawing it. "You better watch your back, Potter. Dark Lord will come for you. Just like that good for nothing ginger blood-traitor."

Harry shrugged. "He tried many times already. Do you want to know why I'm not scared?" Harry waited a moment to add to the drama. "Because I'm still here." The green-eyed boy smiled uncaringly. "And I don't plan on dying just yet."

The blonde did have a comeback ready. "You know, I do wonder how is it you survived sometimes? Was it a freak incident? Or did your mother sacrifice her body for you before she died? It wouldn't surprise me. I've seen what she looks like and I can't blame the Dark Lord for wanting to have a go at that slut."

Harry jumped up at that, unable to let an insult to his mother go but unwilling to attack the boy for doing the same thing he did not so long ago. He took a step to the door of the compartment closer to the blonde. "You want to leave now." He could feel something in him, something dangerous and wild, rise to the surface, pushing out of his skin like smoke.

The Slytherin boy's eyes went wide in surprise. "Is that all you have to say? Do you have no honour left in you that you would allow an insult to your mother?" He shook his head and raised his arms, hands looking up. "Then again, you like to surround yourself with dirt. The Weasleys, the mudblood, the squib." The familiar smirk returned to his face. "I should warn you, with the way Weasleys seem to find themselves in dangerous situations, you should ready yourself for a lonely existence, however long you may last against your betters."

 _That did it,_ Harry thought and promptly lost his mind as he let his fist fly, hitting the other boy in his jaw. His other fist followed right after, snapping the boy's head around and causing him to fall. Harry felt hands on him, trying to drag him back but he shrugged out of them and kneeled on top of the boy to continue his work.

He didn't have time for more than two weak punches before Malfoy's two stooges descended on Harry, lifting him up and throwing him to the ground. He didn't let the pain on the left side of his chest keep him down and jumped up again, squaring off against the overly large boys. He growled and drew himself up to his full, short height and glared at the stupid humanoids.

He badly wanted to let loose on three Slytherins, his skin prickling with barely restrained energy, his vision blurring around the edges of the boys. But the ghostly image of Zacharias writhing on bloody tiles was still etched onto his eyelids, and it was that image that stayed his hand.

"You really should've left, Malfoy," Harry whispered tiredly once he was sure the two troll-like boys wouldn't attack and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Yo- You won't get away with this," was the blonde's stuttering response.

"Are you sure?" he asked with a whisper and looked around him conspiratorially. "I'm pretty sure I will. Apparently, I can get away with Cedric's murder. I wonder if I should double-down on my murderous instincts by throwing you off this train and forget all about you right after."

"Nah. Too much work." The dark-haired boy smiled innocently. "Instead, I'll do this," he said as he palmed the wide-eyed boy's wand from the floor where it had fallen. He took each end between his fingers and broke the instrument of magic in half. "Now you can't do magic either."

Malfoy looked somewhere between shock, fear, indignation and hatred as he sat on the floor, and Harry enjoyed it immensely, which in turn gave him a sickening feeling.

It was as if he was losing more of himself every second and it became so bad, he was enjoying other people's misery. "Get out of here," he ordered Malfoy with a sigh. "And take your two plus-sized morons with you."

He sat on the bench heavily as soon as the irritants left and bit into his lips as he tried to make sense of himself. "I'm losing my mind," he whispered as he looked up at Hermione's judgemental yet kind eyes. "They come at me from everywhere and I… I can't keep fighting."

Hermione jumped to her feet from where she was sitting next to Neville and kneeled in front of him. "It's going to be okay, Harry."

Harry threw his hands in the air. "I know you want to believe that but… how can I when every day this world turns darker and turns me darker. I could have killed that fool if his friends hadn't gotten in the way. And the worst thing is, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed hurting him, and I _loved_ the fear in his eyes." He turned his head to the ceiling, not wanting to see Hermione's expression, and closed his eyes to fight the tears.

 _Manly tears, not emotional crisis tears._

 _Oh, who are you kidding?_

He felt Hermione took his right hand in hers, cleaning the blonde piece of shit's blood gently with a piece of cloth. "We'll fix you, Harry, no matter what you think on the matter."

Harry sagged on his seat and leaned back, hitting his head on the wall. "I'm not sure if I should come back to Hogwarts after the break. I'm not even sure if I want to," he confessed with a whisper, purposefully not looking at Neville, afraid of his reaction to things he did and say.

Hermione put her chin on his leg and looked up at him with pleading eyes. "You know you have to, Harry."

"Why do I have to?"

"You have to finish your education," was her immediate answer.

Harry looked down at his friend like she was crazy. "And what good will it do when I and a wand together spells catastrophe?"

The bushy haired girl rocked her head from side to side. "There is that," she agreed with a nod. "But I don't believe for one second that this is permanent. And neither should you. You will get better Harry Potter. You will return to Hogwarts, and you will become one of the most powerful wizards to walk on this planet."

There was so much conviction in her voice that Harry believed her, even if only for a second. "How? Why?"

"How? With my help, of course," she said with a smile. "Why? Because you can't leave me alone at Hogwarts. Who will get me into trouble if you aren't there?"

Harry smiled, and it felt good to know he was still capable of it. "What happened to that sweet girl who thought expulsion was a fate worse than death?"

Hermione gave him a brilliant smile, that reminded Harry of who kept him going. "She grew up."

"Shame. I liked her better when she was just an annoying know-it-all that kept following me everywhere," the raven-haired boy joked and caressed her cheek. He felt the inexplicable urge to kiss Hermione when she stuck out her tongue. "You put that back, young lady!" he admonished in faux-irritation instead and flicked the offending organ.

Hermione did so and smiled as she sat next to him and put her head on his shoulder. "We are going to be okay. We'll figure everything out."

"Damn right, we will," Harry agreed with more certainty than he felt. "Voldemort, Dumbledore, Malfoy, Fudge. They have no idea who they are messing with. They each may be powerful in their own way, but I've got something much better."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"You."

It was a sweet sentiment, but it was true all the same. At least to Harry. Hermione looked doubtful but the boy-hero knew in his heart of hearts, she would prove her doubts wrong.

The rest of the trip went by more peacefully with each child in their own world, watching out the passing world around them. The trip to the Grimmauld place in the company of Moody, Lupin and Tonks was spent in silence as well, the tension in the group was obvious for all to see.

As soon as Harry stepped foot in the dusty old house, he was swept up in a hug by the exuberant owner. "Prodigal godson returns!"

"And dies due to asphyxiation," Harry wheezed out. "Good to see you, Sirius," he added as his godfather let up the hug but kept a hand on his shoulder, a truly excited grin on his face. Harry tried but he lost the fight to the urge to smile, infected by his godfather.

 _Godfather._

"Good to see you as well, Harry. Come, come. Molly cooked a feast for your arrival." The thin and sickly looking but healing man directed the boy to the kitchen where the most Weasley folk were sitting. "Look who's here."

"Oh, is that Harry Potter? What a surprise! I never thought I'd see him here on the day Hogwarts let out," Ginny said, sarcasm thick as ever in her voice. "Can I please get your autograph?"

Harry Potter gave her his best Lockhart impression. "I bet you'd love that, wouldn't you, Miss elbow-in-her-food?"

The redheaded blushed and glared at Harry. "That was once! Once! And years ago."

"But it's still funny," the twins said at the same time, then turned to each other. "Jinx! Hey! You can't talk!" they continued as a few people laughed.

Harry ignored the goofs and turned to Ron whose freckles looked out of place on his paler-than-usual face. "How is your father?"

"He's good," Ron answered with a nod. "They got him to the hospital just in time. He'll have a few scars, but the healers say he'll recover fully."

"Good." Harry sat down across from his friend as seats on his both sides were filled by Hermione and Sirius. He put his head on the table and closed his eyes.

"What's gotten into you? You look all tense," Ron said bluntly. "Well, tenser than usual."

Hermione put her hand in Harry's as Harry gave a one-word answer, "Malfoy."

Harry felt Hermione move around on her seat but didn't have the enthusiasm to check it out. "That explains it. What did the ferret do now?"

"Later," Hermione ordered harshly to the redhead, and Harry was sure she was glaring. "So, Sirius, how are things going? Have you managed to clean the house yet?"

Harry tuned out the pleasant talk as he rested, though unable to relax thanks to the oppressive aura of the house and the many unfamiliar people around. It was while he was thinking back to the events of the last few months, he came to a decision.

He had to share his theories with Hermione, Ron and Sirius. Like he had said on the train, he had Hermione and that girl could solve anything when she put her scary mind to it. Ron, while not the most academically inclined, was often a great help in pointing out the obvious, and Sirius was… He was Harry's godfather and that was good enough reason.

 _Can they fix you as well? Can Hermione fix you?_

 _Of course, she can._

 _Do you want to be fixed?_

 _Of course, I do._

 _Are you sure? Think about how much you enjoyed hurting Malfoy._

 _He's a Malfoy. Anyone would enjoy hurting him._

 _You know she's going to want to lock you up, or worse, tell Dumbledore._

 _She won't. Not Hermione._

 _How sure are you about that? Are you willing to bet your freedom on it? On her? She will take away the sky from you._

" _She won't!"_ It took Harry a few moments to realise he said the last part out loud, and he had jumped out of his seat. The shocked and concerned faces around him made the situation worse and he felt a wave of irrational anger well up inside him. "Where am I staying?" he asked Sirius quietly, fighting the tears.

"Come, I'll show you."

Before Harry could leave the kitchen, Mrs Weasley planted herself in front of him. "Harry, dear, dinner is just about ready."

"I'm not feeling hungry, but thank you, Mrs Weasley," Harry answered as kindly as he could.

The motherly woman looked as if she wanted to say more but a warning glance from Sirius changed her mind. "I'll save you a plate in case you get hungry later."

"Don't risk losing your hand to Ron's stomach on my account," Harry joked weakly and walked past the woman. He followed Sirius up the stairs to the third floor.

"This was my brother's room, so pardon the decor," Sirius explained as they entered a room with obvious Slytherin vibes, greens and silvers everywhere.

"It's better than any other room I've slept in," Harry said with a careless shrug and threw himself on the bed.

"Are you okay, kid?" Harry opened a single eye to give Sirius the 'what do you think?' look, causing him to snort. "What am I asking? Of course, you're not."

"You think?"

Sirius raised his hands in defence. "Don't bite my head off, now." He walked to the bed and sat next to Harry. "Talk to me, kid. Tell god-daddy your problems."

Harry snorted at the ridiculous man. "That sounded like a bad porn name."

"Oh, and pray tell, what do you know about porn?"

Harry shrugged horizontally, still looking at Sirius with one eye. "I didn't have a lot to do last summer, and Dudley has quite the collection of erotic magazines. You do the math."

"You know, your dad and I once snuck out of the Potter mansion to see one of those movies."

Harry sat up at that, never finding stories about his parents anything less than fascinating even if they were obviously not for his ears. "Do tell."

Sirius gave a shrug and an embarrassed smile. "That was it, actually. We saw an adult movie, returned home and went to separate showers."

"That sounds exciting," Harry deadpanned. "Well, at least you didn't shower together."

His late father's best friend threw a gentle punch at Harry's shoulder. "I know I said I loved your dad but chill out. Ours was brotherly love."

Harry grinned. "You never know with you, purebloods. How could I know you didn't embrace your family values in a slightly different way?"

Sirius looked at Harry with surprise before barking out a laugh. "I never pegged you for a smartarse."

"See, you say brotherly love then make comments about my arse. No offence, mate, but I'm not looking for a — what was it you called it? — a god-daddy."

Sirius' laughter turned up a notch. "That was good," he said once he calmed. "It's good to see you in a good mood, Harry. I was afraid when Dumbledore said…"

Harry tensed and sat up. "What did he say?"

The older man shook his head. "It's nothing. Never mind."

"Tell me."

Sirius sighed and turned his body to face Harry completely. "He said you weren't doing well. That you were always angry and disrespectful, always sulking."

Harry's first instinct was to dismiss the unasked commentary, but he honestly knew some of them were true. _Still, the bastard has a lot of guts, telling half-truths like that._ "I'd like to see how he reacts to constant torture, belittlement and disrespect."

Sirius' worry turned into confused shock. "What torture?"

"Oh, didn't he tell you? What a surprise. I wouldn't tell anyone if I sat back and watched as a teacher tortured her students while another teacher constantly insulted them. If I were him, I'd be mighty ashamed of myself for doing nothing while a student of mine was losing his mind."

"Umbridge?" Sirius asked but didn't wait for an answer. "But Dumbledore said he had her under control."

"He doesn't have scars on the back of his hand to prove what a vindictive bitch she is," Harry answered and rolled up his sleeve to show Sirius what's written there. "Blood quill," he explained when Sirius didn't say anything.

 _It will be a fun holiday,_ Harry thought as he watched Sirius march out of the room without a word. _Oh, yes. It'll be all fun and games._


	5. Ch 5 - Path of Most Resistance

The first few days of holidays went by in a tense daze as Harry's mood swings and Mr Weasley's injury were on everyone's minds. The first day, Harry pulled Hermione, Ron and Sirius into his room and showed them his new books, explaining his theories and asking for their opinion. After that, four of them spent most of their time in Harry's room, going over the books and discussing the possibilities.

To Harry's surprise, none of them mentioned Dumbledore.

They narrowed down the possibilities and added a few more theories, but overall, they made little headway.

Harry didn't spend all his time in his books though. He had a godfather to spend quality time with; a godfather he was just getting to know, and even Hermione agreed studying could wait occasionally.

All in all, the first week of holidays was fun in a tense sort-of way which meant the other shoe was about to drop.

It was a couple of days before Christmas when it did. After an Order meeting, Snape stalked Harry to the library where he and Hermione had set up shop when Mrs Weasley pitched a fit about proper behaviour when she caught them alone in his room with Ron hanging out with the twins, playing the unwilling guinea pig.

"Potter, Headmaster, in his infinite wisdom, requested me to teach you Occlumency. We will begin when the term starts. Every Monday and Wednesday at eight. You will study hard and show up on time."

Harry watched and listened to the potion master's monologue with amusement, tapping his foot absentmindedly. "No," he said when the greasy man finished.

Snape raised a single eyebrow in surprise and his lips turned up in a cruel smirk. "No?"

"No, I don't believe I will."

"And do tell, why not, Potter?" the sneaky man asked as he stalked forward to intimidate Harry. "Or is this your arrogance talking again?"

"Call it what you will. I won't have you rummaging around in my mind."

Snape's amusement faltered for a moment. "And how do you know what Occlumency is?"

"I read," was Harry's monotone answer as he looked at the hook-nosed man right in the eye, daring him to pull a stunt.

Snape's amusement left his face completely, leaving an ugly sneer in its place. "Just like your father, Potter. Always thinking you know best. Always arrogant and disrespectful."

 _Why is it always my father with this arsehole?_

This time, it was Harry who took a step closer, getting into the greasy-haired man's face as the dangerous and wild thing resurfaced, coating his skin in greenish grey smoke. "I suggest you don't mention my father ever again."

"Is that a threat, Mr Potter?"

"No, it's a promise of pain if you insult my _dead_ father again," Harry answered in all honesty.

Snape's sneer turned to a smirk and eyes shined in delight. "Like I said, just like your father. He'd resort to threats when faced with a smarter man as well. He was a no-good Gryffindor like you too; always breaking the rules, strutting around like he owned the place. He never did learn. That's what got him killed. A freak, just like you."

Harry breathed through his nose, trying to calm himself with little success but he refused to be goaded by the pitiful man in front of him. "Yeah, yeah. And all that comes out of your Death Eater arse are rainbow bridges and all that bullshit. Now, if you are done, I have plenty of things I'd rather do with my time than to spend time listening to you moan about what a terrible man my father, who incidentally fought your master and was one of the legendary figures of the war," Harry said with a forced smile that turned more and more genuine as the pale figure of Snape reddened in madness.

"Sure, it got him killed, but he died fighting for what he believed in and with his honour intact. You still live, but there is little to speak of in terms of honour in you. You prostrate yourself to two different masters, lying to both. You take your jollies from tormenting children as if that makes you a big man. You…"

Harry's harsh monologue was cut short by a sudden trip down a memory lane, and he never knew that maxim could be so literal. His whole life flashed before his eyes, his worst memories taking the forefront of the trip, the most painful memories repeat themselves in a vicious cycle.

He saw Vernon, throwing younger Harry into his cupboard, listing off reasons why he was a good-for-nothing freak, not realising the boy's arm wasn't supposed to bend that way. He saw Petunia screaming in anger, brandishing a hot frying pan like a club. He saw himself running from Dudley and his gang and getting caught after tripping on his overly large clothes.

He saw Quirrell with a leech on the back of his head; a leech that claimed to have the power to bring back his parents and he saw himself refuse the tempting offer.

He saw himself standing in Chamber of Secrets with a bloody sword on one hand and an inky-black fang on the other, a phoenix on one shoulder and a hat in his back pocket, tired and hurting all over.

He saw dementors, countless of them, all vying for a taste of his soul.

He saw Cedric dying, over and over again. He felt the awesome pain of cruciatus course through every cell of his body, over and over again.

And he saw many more things. And he felt many more things. He felt everything he felt when lived through those moments. All the pain and desperation and fear and anger. Never the triumph or joy or love or serenity.

More than anything, he felt angry. He knew what was happening, he understood it the moment he began this trip, but he was powerless to stop it.

 _Well, we aren't exactly powerless, now, are we?_

Because even as he thought about it, he felt a dark mist surround his mind and suddenly, the mist was also surrounding his body, and he was back in the real world, watching as Snape reeled back in shock.

Harry felt his lips quirk up in a grin, and in a flash, he was all over Snape, his hands moving out of their own accord and with more power than he would have thought possible if he had the mind to recognise his actions.

A crunch of bones coming from the centre of the despicable man's face had Harry chuckling even as he continued to pummel into him, a soft, sizzling sound of burning skin reaching his ears each time his skin touched the other man's, a cloud of dark smoke rising from the injured skin. Snape was on the floor now and Harry was on top of him, continuing his unrelenting assault on the other man.

He continued until he was bodily lifted and thrown aside by his old, sandy-haired professor, but by then, the damage was done. "Harry, that's enough!" Lupin yelled before turning his attention to the broken man lying in his own blood. "Severus, are you okay?"

"He's about to get worse," Harry snarled, trying to get up but unable to because of the hands holding him in place. He looked up to see those hands belonged to Sirius and Hermione. "Let me go."

"Harry, calm down," Sirius said soothingly. "What happened?"

Harry didn't hear him though, his attention on the greasy haired bastard pushing the only helping hand trying to aid him, moaning pitifully. No, this time, not even the image of a writhing Zacharias kept his worst instincts at bay. "Let go of me!" he yelled, and his wish was granted when both Sirius and Hermione jumped back with a yelp. In the blink of an eye, he was standing over Snape again, and he wrapped his hands around the man's throat, ignoring his wide eyes and sizzling skin. And he squeezed.

Snape's pained screams were a balm for his broken soul.

The world disappeared from around him, and he kept squeezing. There was only the burning skin of the man before him, the delightful and desperate screams and smoke. His heart hammered against his chest with unrestrained delight, his blood burned in extasy.

 _Just a little bit longer._

He squeezed harder, loving the song of this magic and Snape were singing in his name. He wanted to hear more of it. _Magic_ wanted more of it.

And that was the last thing he knew.

He woke up in his room — _his room_ —, and for a moment, wondered how he got there when a moment before he was with Hermione, looking through some of the books in Black Library. Then it hit him.

The first thing he felt was anger, burning through his veins like the basilisk's venom. _How dare he?!_

But anger soon left him, leaving behind only the horror of what he had done. He had almost killed a man — might have even succeeded. And as despicable as Snape was; as murderable as Snape was; he, Harry Potter was no killer!

 _That's probably what Quirrell thought right before you burned him alive._

That… _That's not true! Quirrell was already dead. He was dead the moment he accepted Voldemort's possession!_

 _Is that what you tell yourself?_

Harry didn't have an answer to the arsehole in him. He sank to his knees, sobs escaping him finally. He cried and cried and cried and cried and cried, he didn't know for how long.

He was brought out of his misery by a knock on the door. "Harry, are you decent? I would like to have a word."

Harry let go of the knees he was clutching against his chest but did not rise from where he was sat on the floor against the bed. _When did I change positions?_ He cleaned his face with the sleeve of his shirt and took a shaky, heaving breath. "Pl- Leave me alone."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, dear boy," Dumbledore said, his voice soft.

Harry would have felt angry for how fragile Dumbledore thought he was, but the man was probably right, and he had no fight in him to feel anger. Only misery. Misery was less taxing.

"Please. Leave me alone. Please."

"Harry, we must discuss what happened between you and Professor Snape." The ancient headmaster was patient, and his voice carried no judgement, and Harry yearned so much for a sympathetic ear, he thought to agree.

He didn't. That tiny part of him that hoped against all hope to reconcile with the man, that part of him wanted to lose himself in the man's calming voice was tired, and the rest of him felt all the more disconnected from everything, especially the man who ignored his plight for so long. "Please, please, please. Go away. Go," Harry cried, desperate.

And Dumbledore must have heard the desperation in his voice because, with a sigh, he did so.

And Harry sat there, in a daze, with no more tears to shed, and with an odd sort of buzz travelling through every cell in his body, and he heard his own voice whisper, again and again, and again and again: _you are a killer_.

He sat there through the night, staring off into the darkness and only seeing an image of himself with bloody hands, his normally vibrant green eyes dull and lifeless.

And he was still sat there when the sun shone through the open window, illuminating the darkness, only to show nothing had changed in the room, and that he was still alone, and his hands were still bloody.

A knock on the door, so sudden Harry would have jumped up in fright if he had the life in him, brought his gaze to the door that protected him from the world. _Or is it the other way around_ , he wondered, now that he accepted his new title as the Boy-Who-Killed.

When he spoke, his voice was scratchy, like he was speaking through sandpaper, but he didn't care. "What?"

"I brought you breakfast," answered the surprising voice of Ginny Weasley. And the fact that it was Ginny and not Hermione, Ron or Sirius, or even Molly Weasley, that stayed Harry's poisonous tongue.

"Okay."

Ginny entered the room tentatively, not fearful of him but fearful of how fragile he might be. Harry didn't blame her for it. He was broken. He knew that now better than ever. He had always been aware he was not normal, that his mind worked slightly different than other people's. But now, in the aftermath of another incident where he almost took a life — perhaps even did so — that reality was unavoidable. He couldn't find a lie to console himself with, couldn't find a way to spin this last incident around to alleviate the guilt he felt burning through his guts and fear he felt that he might turn into another Tom Riddle.

And maybe it was a good thing he didn't have the control of his magic anymore. He couldn't become another unmentionable dark lord if he couldn't even cast magic.

Ginny approached Harry slowly, but her footsteps were confident. She lowered herself to the ground in front of Harry and sat with her legs crossed underneath her. "Are you okay?"

Harry didn't even try to smile to alleviate her worry, his dead eyes on her freckled face was enough of an answer. He still felt the need to verbalise and did so with a mumbled, "Sure, let's go with that."

The redheaded girl sighed and put the tray of food next to Harry. "Snape will live if you are worried. Not that you should be, the bastard deserved what you did to him and more."

Harry stared.

"Sirius was heartbroken when he heard the news, of course. He even tried to sneak off to finish the job. Remus caught him before he could get far," she said with a light snort and a smile. "Only when McGonagall told him the shape of Snape's nose, did he relent."

Harry stared.

Ginny sighed. "You are going to have to speak to me eventually, Harry. You know I'm relentless."

Harry stared.

Ginny settled on the floor and gave Harry a look of such focus, he was intimidated for a moment. So, he stared.

Ginny's focus didn't relent. "You know if anyone understands what you are going through, it's me," she said, and Harry had to fight an urge to snort at the ridiculousness of that statement.

The redheaded girl was quick to shatter his momentary amusement though, and with cold facts too. "When that damned… diary had its dark magic all over my brain or whatever, I would wake up missing time. I would wake up in blood covered hands and dirty clothes with no memory of what I did the night before. It was… It was a nightmare."

She took a shaky breath, her eyes never leaving Harry's. "There wasn't an attack every time I woke up without a memory, but there was enough of them that I made the connection. I was so scared. I didn't understand what was happening at first, so I confided in my wonderful diary, and Tom was oh-so sympathetic to my plight. But there was something fishy. Something didn't add up with the way he spoke. The words he used, they were… odd, for lack of a better word."

Harry stared.

"He didn't outright say he was a psychopath or anything like that, but he would always ask about you. What was your reaction to this latest attack? How did you feel about the suspicions that you were this extraordinary Heir of Slytherin? Were you frightened?" She chuckled. "He was obsessed with you. More than even I was, and I was obsessed."

Harry stared and snorted.

Ginny gave him a bright smile before her face regained an appropriate level of seriousness for the horrors she was recounting. "I tried to get rid of it, you know. Well, of course, you know. You had to find that damned diary. You of all people! Tom was so upset with me for stealing him from you."

Ginny's eyes widened and she froze momentarily. "Damn! That sounded like a line from one of those cheesy romance novels mom loves to read," she said with a shudder. And Harry laughed.

And then they were laughing together. Then Harry was crying. It was all so confusing. He didn't know when the laughing stopped, and when he started using Ginny's newest Christmas sweater as a tissue while he bawled his eyes out on her shoulder. But he held on to her all the same, held on to her with the same desperation he felt when he was summoning Triwizard Cup, hoping against all hopes it would provide him with a miraculous escape.

He cried and cried and felt Ginny's soft hands running all over his back and heard Ginny's soft voice whispering soft encouragements into his ear. And he cried some more.

After a while and after shedding enough tears to make him woozy and light-headed because of dehydration, he let out a shuddering breath and let go, surprised to find dried tear tracks on her face as well. And he smiled. "You look awful," he wheezed, his throat hurting just by producing a sound.

"Don't go breaking my heart, now, Potter," Ginny drawled, and they laughed. "Now, why don't you drink some water and eat a few bites."

Harry nodded his tired acceptance of her orders. As he ate, his mind ran wild, and watching Ginny, now, as she there, calm and accepting and oh-so understanding, he realised he had never talked to her about what she went through that year, under the spell of a monster and commanding a monster. "How are you so… you?" he asked, unable to articulate his thoughts.

Ginny quirked an amused eyebrow and waited for him to elaborate.

"How did you get over what happened to you? You were so young. It must have been terrifying, even after the diary was destroyed."

She cocked her head from side to side, again and again, as she thought. "Well, I had my family, not that they knew how to handle what happened, of course. No one does, I don't think. But they were there, and they were the same family I grew up with and that normalcy, I think, helped more than anything else." She chuckled. "Then, of course, you were there."

Harry raised a surprised eyebrow, knowing he wasn't really _there_ for her. Not in a way that counted anyway.

"You don't understand. You don't understand just how big a hero you were to me, even before you saved me. You were — are the Boy-Who-Lived. And then, you saved me. From Voldemort. And you fought an enormous snake to do it."

She shook her head, looking at him with such adoration, he was disturbed a little bit. "I was dreading returning to Hogwarts for my second year because I thought it would remind me of what happened. But then I returned, and you were there, and I slept better than I had all summer." She shrugged. "I know it doesn't make sense to you, but you _are_ my hero."

Harry let out a deep breath, closing his eyes in frustration even as it bubbled out of him. "I'm no one's hero!" he whispered harshly.

He felt her soft hands on her chin and cheeks, prompting him to open his eyes, only to meet her brown ones, looking at him with such softness that it broke his heart a little bit. "You are many people's hero, Harry Potter," she whispered. "Hermione wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. Sirius wouldn't have his soul. Mr and Mrs Diggory wouldn't have a body to bury."

"You are a hero," she whispered again, her conviction absolute and her voice strong. "And you will always be," she said. "Even when you are being a moody git."

Harry's glare lost his heat, and he chuckled at her last description. He closed his eyes for a moment, and just let himself enjoy the soft caress of her hands on his cheeks. When he opened them again, there was more a bit life in him. "You say that," he said, his lips quirking up. "But I haven't seen you put your elbow in a dish lately."

"Maybe you just haven't looked closely enough," she whispered, her breath hot against his skin, leaving behind a pleasurable burning sensation.

His eyes dropped to her lips just then, pink, soft and oh-so-enticing, but he regained his senses quickly enough. "Perhaps I should correct that mistake."

She grinned and lifted a satisfied eyebrow. "Perhaps you should."

"Perhaps I will."

"Just kiss her already!"

Both Harry and Ginny jumped up at the unexpected voice, not having realised the door had opened. Sirius stood on the threshold, leaning against the doorframe with the biggest shit-eating grin ever, amusement dripping from every pore. The two unlucky teenagers stood frozen like they were caught with their hands in the cookie jar until Ron spoke from behind the amused man, "Should I gather the Weasley clan for a talking to about not hurting my sister, Potter?"

Hermione entered the room, pushing both Sirius and Ron out of her way. "Boys!" she complained and rolled her eyes, emphasising her exasperation perfectly with just one word. "We need to talk," she said though she refused to look at either of them, her cheeks tinged with pink.

Harry shook himself out of his stupor first, glaring at Sirius. "Oh, please, no need to knock. Make yourselves at home."

Sirius ignored the sarcasm, entering the room proper with a haughty rise of his nose that reminded Harry of the only time he saw Narcissa Malfoy. "I think I will, seeing as this is, you know, my home."

"This is a dump not fit for a boggart, let alone a human," Ginny said, perching herself on the windowsill, ignoring the lingering embarrassment even as her cheeks remained a healthy pink.

"You wound me," Sirius deadpanned as he threw himself on Harry's bed, fitting in oddly well with a group of teenagers.

"What are you guys doing here?" Harry asked, folding her arms over his chest.

"We need to regroup and plan for what we are going to do," Hermione explained. "What happened had slightly more effects than you would think."

"Oh?"

"Mate, you scared the crap out of people," Ron said with brutal honesty. "Snape was in pretty bad shape. Not that I'm complaining. The git deserved it, as far as I'm concerned. He deserved it years ago, I reckon."

"As foul as Ronald's mouth is, he's essentially right," Hermione picked up. "About people being scared, I mean. Most of the order members are terrified about what you did. They are beginning to wonder if you are lying after all, and that maybe you fooled Dumbledore."

"People are stupid," Harry said offhandedly, even as he felt guilt stab viciously at his heart. "We knew that already."

Sirius snorted. "Preach it, brother."

Hermione glared at Sirius, but her eyes softened when they found Harry. "The thing is, they are questioning if you should be _allowed_ to return Hogwarts. Some of them think you are too dangerous to be let loose on _innocent_ student population. Stupid as that is."

Harry sighed and leaned his back on the window. "Maybe they are right, though. I don't know if you noticed but I've become more violent lately. What I did to Zacharias in that toilet…"

"Aha! So, it was Zacharias who attacked you," Hermione said with a victorious grin before she realised how inappropriate her reaction was. "Umm…"

Harry chuckled and gave Hermione a soft look of amusement. "Yeah. He cornered me with three older years. I beat them easily but… Well, let's just say I knew long before yesterday what I am capable of when I get angry."

"If you beat them easily, why were you bleeding all over the floor when they found you?" Ron asked, his hand raised in the air like he was in a classroom.

"Eh? What's this about you bleeding all over the floor?" Sirius asked, not a sign of levity on his face.

With an exasperated sigh, he recounted what happened that day, the day his problems first began. It was painful at first, like picking at a scab, but the more he talked, the lighter he felt, and by the end of his story, he felt recharged, refreshed. And when he looked up to see his friends' reactions, the sympathy they had for him was a breath of fresh air.

 _I was a fool to keep this myself._

 _You are a fool._

 _Better a fool than a monster._

Sirius gave him a calculating look, one that reminded him of Hermione, as odd as that was. "Your problems with magic began right after that… _incident_ , you say?"

"Yes, I made that connection. And I realise most of my problems are psychological," Harry said and shrugged impotently. "But I found no references to people suffering from a similar reaction in any of the books I've gone through. The closest thing I could find to what is going on with my magic is obscurus, but… I don't know. That doesn't sound right."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, now seated on an antique chair that seemed to barely hold together.

"It's like…" He rubbed his face in frustration at his inability to explain himself. "Everything I've read about obscurus… They sound familiar but like… only thirty-five per cent familiar, you know? I think there is a connection there, but that's not the whole story."

"Well, of course, it isn't," Sirius agreed like it was obvious. The four teenagers turned to him askance, Harry and Hermione more so than the Weasley children. "Never read any book about magic like reading a formula. Magic does not follow any formulas," he advised with an air of seriousness.

"Magic is not science," the old Marauder explained further. "With gravity, you know when you let go of an object, it will fall, and you can calculate where it will fall and how fast it will travel if you know all the variables. Magic isn't like that. It's ever-changing and never the same."

Hermione's eyes shined with a frightening hunger as she leaned forward. "But we all cast the same spells with same wand motions and same incantations. That's a formula right there. Incantation plus wand motion plus intent equals magic."

Sirius shook his head, tutting at Hermione. "We use these formulas, as you say, like mnemonic devices. Have you never seen anyone cast without uttering a word or without even using a wand?"

The children all looked at each other in puzzlement before the answer came to them at the same time. "Dumbledore," they all supplied in harmony.

"Not surprising," Sirius said with a shrug. "He's one of the smartest men there is and certainly one of the most knowledgeable. It's indisputable that there is a direct correlation between knowledge and skill."

"Hah!" Hermione's smug smile, aimed mostly on Ron, was a sight to behold.

But Sirius was quick to burst her bubble of ego. "Not so fast. When I say knowledge, I mean internalisation of magic, understanding it. Not reading every book there is. You can read thousands of the deepest books there is, but if you don't internalise it, if you don't understand it completely, they will be of no help to you."

"This is all well and good," Ginny cut in before Hermione could question Sirius more on the subject. "But what does that have to do with Harry's thirty-five per cent obscurus theory?"

"Ah, yes, we went a bit off tangent there," Sirius said as he raised himself on his elbows and put his chin on his palm. "Okay, how to explain this best so your childish brains could understand it?" He tapped his fingers on his nose, pretending to think hard while Hermione glared at the obscene man. Sirius must have realised the danger because he was quick to continue. "Magic is personal. No two people's experience of it is ever the same. Take Harry, for example. Why, I've never seen a man with so little enthusiasm about learning magic have so good grasp of it."

"Me?" Harry said in a high-pitched tone. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Me? Most basic Lumos is a coin toss for me."

"True," Sirius said. "But I doubt it's something you can't overcome with our help. When I say a good grasp of magic, I mean the general ease with which you manipulate it, use it, whatever you want to call."

Harry looked doubtful, perhaps rightfully so. "That's so not true. Hermione always casts every spell we learn first. Hell, I'm rarely the second to cast successfully."

"You are missing the point, Harry," Hermione said. "Take the summoning charm, for example. Yes, I've learned it before you did, but I doubt I could summon a broom from over a mile away and with no line of sight too. And I've known that spell for over a year now."

"Of course, you can," Harry scoffed in disbelief.

"Mate, don't sell yourself short," Ron butted in, looking oddly uncomfortable. "I get that you are into this 'I'm just a normal teenager' bullshit you deluded yourself into believing, but honestly, you are not."

"Not you too," Harry groaned, his face between his hands, his cheeks inflamed. "It's a bloody summoning charm. Not a — I don't know — a patronus!"

Harry realised his mistake a moment after the words left his mouth, and Hermione's smug grin he could see from between his fingers only caused more blood to rush to his head. "That's a good point. How many adults in Britain can conjure a patronus, do you think?"

"One in three aurors," Sirius supplied with a straight face. "And they learn it _after_ they are accepted into the mentorship program."

"I've read all about patronus charm, you know," Hermione said needlessly. "I haven't come across any references to an underage wizard conjuring anything more than a mist."

"Well, they didn't have the same motivation to learn that I did, did they?" Harry shot back heatedly, getting more and more uncomfortable. "They didn't hear their mother's death every time they were near a dementor, and most children don't even get close to a dementor so the need never even arises!"

"Yes, but-"

"And it took me nearly the whole semester! And say what you will about Lupin, but he was a pretty amazing teacher!"

"Yes, but-"

"And summoning charm, I've learnt under the same pressure. I had to learn to survive against the dragon. So, sure, I'm a bit better at it than your average student. It was a matter of survival, both those instances."

"We are going in circles," Ginny cut in, again, giving Harry a sympathetic glance. "Sirius was making a point, I think."

"Ah, yes," Sirius said with a rueful grin. "The point is, our perception of magic is widely different, and as a result, our experience of it differs just as much. Have you never noticed we don't ever heal a sickness that originates from magic by magicking it away? Ask any healer you want, you don't fight the sickness, you fight the symptoms. That's because even the simplest infections can have different reactions in a person. So, it stands to reason that Harry's symptoms don't match perfectly with the books."

Harry gave Sirius a narrowed look of suspicion. "How do you know so much? You know how many aurors can cast patronus and healing techniques? I smell something fishy."

Sirius raised his hands defensively and lost his balance, flopping on the bed. "Just because I was always a ruggedly handsome delinquent doesn't mean I didn't study when I was at Hogwarts. Do you know how long it took us to become animagi? Or how many sleepless nights in the library it took to figure out the spells to use on the map?"

Harry raised a dubious eyebrow. "None of that studying should have given you statistical knowledge on patroni and the general methods of healing."

Sirius raised his head from the bed and grinned. "I've always been easily bored as a kid, and bugging Poppy was the only source of fun I could get during my various stays under her care. And my cousin is an auror."

"Somehow, I'm not surprised to learn you are easily bored," Hermione said with a roll of her eyes.

"And easily distracted too," Ginny commented with a glance at Harry that told him she was onto him. "Can we stay on point for more than a few seconds, please?"

"Eh, what was the point?" Harry asked, looking for a way out of what he knew would be an awkward conversation.

Sirius gave Harry a puzzled look before it turned to one of embarrassed understanding. "The point was, you may very well be an obscurus. We can't brush off that theory just yet."

Harry gritted his teeth and gave up on changing the subject with a glare in Ginny's way. "It doesn't fit. Trauma, I know first-hand, yes. But I don't fear magic, I don't view it as a bad thing. Fuck, I _love_ magic. It is the second-best thing that ever happened to me."

"Second best thing?" Sirius asked, leaning closer to Harry. "What's the best thing then?"

Harry could just imagine the ideas running through his deprived godfather's head and had to stop that. "Well…" The embarrassment wared with embarrassment, and Harry chose embarrassment. "It's you guys, isn't it? I mean, I had no one, you know. At Dursleys, I mean. Hagrid was the first friend I ever made, and Ron and Hermione were close seconds. And you," he said pointing at Sirius. "Well, you are my only real family, right? It's not like I can justifiably call Dursleys my family. They are more distant relatives I never want to see but must, really. Acquaintances, more like."

There was an awkward silence at that, and Harry felt the irresistible need to fill it. "Ginny too, of course. I guess Pince too, for that matter. Perhaps twins too? I don't know. I'm not good at identifying this stuff, you know. Emotionally stunted and all that rot. There was a joke about it in a newspaper I commandeered from Vernon this summer. What did it say? It's like the joke is right at the edge of my mind but I can't remember. How irritating is that? Does that ever happen to you guys?"

Harry babbled on and on, speaking faster and faster while refusing to look at anyone. He stopped talking nonsense only when he felt Sirius embrace, and he fell promptly silence. Sirius held on to Harry for a minute or two, taking shaky breaths.

He pulled back after one of the best but equally uncomfortable moments of the young boy's life. "You know we love you too, right?"

Harry gave an unsure nod. Sirius must not have liked his response because he spoke again, "We love you, Harry. Each person in this room and probably many more outside it love you and would die for you. Never doubt that."

"Okay," Harry said with a more confident nod. There was silence then, a bit more comfortable but it still felt too charged for Harry's liking. "Good. Of course, you should. I'm goddamn lovable."

"Awkward to confident in a speed of light," Ron said with a laugh. "You are a regular Superman, mate."

Harry puffed his chest, grinning. "Superman got nothing on me."

"He's a fictional character," Hermione said with apparent boredom before turning to Ron with a shrewd look. "What I'm curious about is just how Ronald knows about it."

Ron ducked his head, his ears reddening. "There is not much I could buy in Ottery St. Catchpole," he mumbled.

"And you've bought and _read_ comic books? You _read_? Without someone beating you over the head?" Hermione asked, her shock genuine and even more comical for it.

"It's a comic book though," Ginny pointed out. "Not that much of a chore to read."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Harry disagreed. "I remember Dudley throwing a fit so Petunia would buy him one. Spider-man, I think. He took one look at the first page, saw the words and threw it out." He shrugged. "Never again did he want another comic book."

"Gee, thanks, Harry. Your support is overwhelming."

"You are welcome, mate," Harry said with an unapologetic grin.

"Anyway," Hermione said after another puzzled glance at Ron. "We should discuss what to do about the order. We can't let them lock Harry in her like he's a deranged lunatic." She paused a moment, looked at Sirius and grinned. "No offence."

Sirius gave a brilliant smile. "None taken. I know I'm a perfectly normal lunatic."

"And I'm a bit deranged. We'd make a pretty good team, you and I," Harry said as he sat next to his godfather, grinning.

"Like Bonnie and Clyde?" Sirius asked enthusiastically.

"No clue who they are, but why not."

Ginny folded her arms on her lap. "Can we focus, please? And don't think I haven't caught on to your deflection back then," she said, giving Harry a knowing look.

Harry grinned with teeth. "I have no clue what you are talking about."

The redheaded beauty huffed but couldn't fight the upturn of her lips. "Emotional manipulation does not look good on you, Harry Potter."

"And what does look good on me?" Harry asked, leaning a bit forward.

"Well, I thought you looked striking with a phoenix on your shoulder and a sword in your hand," she answered, copying Harry's movement.

"Oh, I forgot all about that sword," the boy said excitedly, jumping off the bed and racing to his trunk. And he felt it again, that tingle that raced through his bones. He snapped open the trunk and withdrew the sword with great care, feeling magic thump through him. He gave a twirl of the sword, still surprised how well it fit in his hands.

"Like this?" he asked Ginny with a big smile, feeling energised and oh-so-excited for reasons he couldn't comprehend.

Ginny flushed a bit and nodded, giving him a sizing look, her brown eyes shining and looking oh-so-beautiful.

"That's the sword?" Sirius asked, lifting himself up from the bed. "Gryffindor's sword?"

"Oh, yeah," Harry answered in an oddly self-satisfied voice. "Goblin forged and bravely wielded.

"Impressive," Sirius said his hand reaching towards the sword.

"Ah, ah," Harry said, keeping the sword just out of the reach of his godfather. "It was coated in basilisk venom, and Dumbledore said a nick with it could kill a person so be careful." He held out the pommel for Sirius to take.

Sirius tried but as soon as her hands closed around the pommel and Harry let go, he jumped back in fright, dropping the sword. "What was that?!"

"What was what?" Harry asked, picking up the sword and checking it for any damage, knowing he wouldn't find any.

"It… It pushed me away."

Harry gave Sirius a dubious look, wondering if his godfather was losing the last of his marbles left from his time in hell. "Umm…"

Hermione raised from her seat and held out her hand towards Harry. "Let me try."

Harry shrugged and held out the pommel to her. When he let go, she yelped and dropped the sword.

"That's odd."

Ginny and Ron tried and had the same reactions.

"I've got a theory," Hermione said, biting her lower lip. "According to Dumbledore, the sword would appear to 'only a true Gryffindor,' right? Perhaps it requires a great heroic on the part of would-be wielder?"

"See, hero," Ginny gloated with a satisfied nod.

Harry smiled at Ginny and shrugged at Hermione's theory. "As good a theory as any. But I have a better one," he said and held out his hand. Soft knocking sounds came from the bedside table. Harry kept his hand up. The drawer of the bedside table flew open and out flew his Phoenix tail and Holly wand, smacking right onto his hand and filling him with the same joy he felt when he first held it. "Ah," Harry moaned in absolute delight. "That's what I'm talking about." He gave a wave and a whispered incantation, and a bright, silvery mist appeared out of his wand, solidifying into the form of a stag with great antlers.

The familiar feeling of joy and triumph filled the air, almost a physical thing. And when the stag ran around the room, circling the five occupants, no one dared to make a noise, their focus absolute on the manifestation of all the love Harry felt from those in the room.

The stag held their attention for over five minutes, running around like a kid on a sugar rush, before dissolving into thin air. Collective breathing of five people told Harry he was not alone in trying to stay as still as possible.

No one spoke for a moment, everyone still under the spell of the impressive piece of magic. It was the raggedy breath Sirius let out that broke the silence, the man's eyes suspiciously misty. "I see you miraculously regained your magic, godson," he said in a tremulous voice. "Mind sharing that theory you mentioned?"

Harry gave a soft smile at the only man that could understand the pain he felt for the loss of his father. "You guys remember how Fawkes… encouraged me to take the sword when we were Dumbledore's office?" he asked, pointing to Ron and Hermione.

Ron nodded but Hermione shook her head. "Oh, right. You weren't there yet. Anyhow, while we were waiting for news on Mr Weasley, Fawkes flew onto the case that held the sword. Somehow, I got the feeling he wanted me to take it. When I moved to do so, I got this feeling… the same feeling when I cast a spell for the first time. I wanted to test if it was just my imagination or real."

"Well, that's a load off our mind," Sirius said enthusiastically. "Your magic is back."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I can't carry the sword with me all the time, Sirius."

"Why not?"

"Because it is a deathly instrument of war," Hermione pointed out the obvious. "And it was coated in basilisk venom."

"I repeat, why not?" Sirius said, waving his arm around.

"Because he can't," Hermione said, looking at Sirius like he was an odd specimen she couldn't figure out. "It would be dangerous. To himself as much as to those around him."

Harry nodded at Hermione. "She's right. And it's not like I'm in best of places right now, mentally speaking. I'm liable to carve out a new arsehole to Malfoy and his ilk the next time they irritate me."

"Would that turn him double the arsehole he already is?" Ginny asked, her head tilted in contemplation.

 _Adorable._

"I'm okay with that," Ron piped in. "What? I missed the show on the train," he complained when Harry and Hermione turned to him with raised eyebrows in an odd harmony.

"You know, the more we discover about your condition, Harry, the more confusing it gets," Hermione pointed out. "If we take your word on not being an obscurus at face value, which I think we should, and add this new impossibility into the mix… I don't think we'll find anything even remotely like your case in any books."

"Oh, great," Harry groaned childishly. "I'm freakish even among freaks."

"Well, duh," Ron said helpfully.

"So," Sirius said after a moment of everyone looking at Ron blankly. "What happens now?"

Harry gave a wicked grin, bolstered by his own patronus and just by holding the sword of the man that embodied bravery in his lifetime. "Now, we figure out what the path of most resistance is."


End file.
